Database in Transmission
by Dracoqueen22
Summary: A collection of oneshots from G1, Prime, Bayverse, and Animated. 101: TFP, Break Time, JazzxRatchet. 102: G1, You and I, RatchetxWheeljack. 103: G1, Ticking Time, Skyfire and Megatron. 104: G1, Of Hidden Talents, RatchetxWheeljack.
1. Monster, Bay, RatchetXMirage

a/n: I've written a lot of shorter fics like this, 500 words a piece give or take, but I'd hate to spam the site with all of them in separate postings. So I decided it would be best to group them under one posting, similar to another work of mine. These have been self-betaed but I assure you, they are readable. I'm still relatively new to Transformers fandom so I would appreciate any constructive feedback.

Each chapter title in the dropdown menu will have the title, universe, and pairing (if there is a pairing) for easy navigation.

Thank you and enjoy the first one!

**Title: Monster  
>Pairings: RatchetxMirage<br>Universe: Bayverse, post-2007 movie  
>Rated: T<br>Warnings for battle violence, battle wounds and field medicine, angst, mechslash  
>Description: What happens when a medic falls.<br>Inspired by "Monster," by Paramore**

* * *

><p>"Tell me what to do," Mirage says urgently, dragging up his sense of poise and rationality and clinging to both of them, relying on them.<p>

Trying not to stare as energon spurts from various lines and electricity crackles over a chartreuse frame. Trying to focus amid the noises of weapon fire, explosions, screaming, shouting, jets breaking the sound barrier above him, the damning knowledge that the only one who can help him, is the one spilling energon underneath him.

He's frantically pinged Wheeljack, who is on the other side of the battlefield, distracted by Seekers. He's also sent off comms to First Aid, but he fears neither of them will get to him in time.

Static crackles; Ratchet tries to speak. "Clamp the – _bzzkrt _– main – _scrktitch _– line."

He doesn't know what the frag he's doing. Main line? Which main line? And where? With what? Mirage knows basic field repairs, and has gleaned a few odds and ends from being in the med bay so much. But this... this is beyond him. This is the sort of damage that requires Ratchet's miraculous abilities.

A hand (the other arm is about fifty feet away, out of grasp, Mirage will worry about retrieving it later) grips his shoulder, but grips is too strong a word. Paws, perhaps, in an attempt to grip, trying to get Mirage's attention as he stares aghast at damage, rage burning in the back somewhere. Behind the fear and the worry, there's rage, too.

'_I'll tear Shockwave's spark out with my own hands_,' he seethes. But first, Ratchet must live. He has to live.

Warmth. Through their bond. Not an ounce of fear. Not from Ratchet who, it seems, is always fearless. Concern, yes, but for Mirage instead. Certainty. Faith. Not in a deity, but in Mirage.

He inclines his head, focuses, stares through a haze and traces a main energon line, one radiating out from Ratchet's spark chamber. Mirage finds the tear, pulls a clamp out of his field kit, and patches it up.

He tells himself his hands aren't shaking as he drags his optics back to Ratchet's face, inwardly terrified by the dimming of Ratchet's optics. Energon loss. Even Mirage knows to recognize that.

"Now what?" he asks, desperate for the next step. Mirage has no idea where to begin; he needs Ratchet to tell him. "Ratchet?"

But there's no answer to his query.

* * *

><p>an: I should update pretty steadily as I have several in backlog that I simply have to reformat and edit one more time before I can post them. So expect a stream of updates at first, and then the updates will come as soon as I write another one.

I do take requests/suggestions. I cannot guarantee that I can or will write them, but if the muses nibble, I can be certain to give them a try.

Thank you for reading! Feedback is welcome and appreciated!


	2. Iridescent, Bay, Ironhide and Will

a/n: Another drabble for your reading pleasure. Please enjoy.

**Title: Iridescent**

**Verse: Bayverse, pre-DoTM, post-RoTF**

**Characters: Ironhide, Will Lennox**

**Rated: K+**

**Description: Ironhide and Will have a foreshadowing discussion**

****Warnings: potential spoilers for Dark of the Moon  
><strong>**

**Inspired by "Iridescent," by Linkin Park**

* * *

><p>"Nervous?"<p>

There's a rolling rasp of noise that Will has already learned to interpret as a snort or a huff. "Hardly."

Leaning back, Will folds his arms behind his head, drawing one knee up. "Yeah. Well, I am."

Beneath him, he can feel Ironhide rumble, a pleasing sensation that simultaneously comforts and stimulates. Which, he assumes, had been Ironhide's intention from the start. "You're no stranger to battle, Will."

"No," he concedes. "But something feels different."

Will's not even sure he can put it into words. His face goes through a series of expressions from attempting to do so. There's something in the air, something that settles heavy in his chest, twists in his gut.

"It's not going to be like all the others," Will adds, lifting his gaze, letting it roam over the twilight sky, stars peeking out through a light cloud cover. Somewhere, out there, is a dead planet that used to be Ironhide's home. "It's... different."

"Ah. You're psychic now?" Humor is rich in that deep voice. Will never ceases to marvel at that. For all that they are different species, some things remain remarkably the same.

The same fear and happiness and pleasure and pain. They are highly advanced creatures made of metal and chips and other bits that Will could never make sense of, but they are, at spark, the things that Will identifies as human. Or, according to Ratchet, the humans, at heart, are Cybertronian.

Will rolls his eyes, knocks his elbow backward, hears the low echo as it reverberates a short distance across Ironhide's frame. Probably barely felt it. "No," he says. "I'm surprised you can't feel it."

There's quiet for a moment, quiet where Will expected to hear another witty retort or a sharp bark of laughter, or some kind of amusement. Instead, the air is thick with contemplation.

"I do," Ironhide says quietly. "And I'd tell you to be careful, but I'm no recently sparked fool. This is war."

Will unfolds an arm, dropping his hand down to drag fingers over Ironhide's chassis beneath him. "Yeah, I know. Same to you."

* * *

><p>an: Feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	3. Incomplete, Bay, Sunstreaker

a/n: I'm hardly the first person to speculate on Sunstreaker's whereabouts during the Bayverse trilogy, and I'm quite certain that this idea has been done before. I've never read one, but I'm fairly certain I can't be the only one who thought of it. Still, it's an idea worth pursuing and I'm quite fond of this piece.

Please enjoy.**  
><strong>

**Title: Incomplete**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-2007**

**Characters: Sunstreaker, Thundercracker, Skywarp**

**Rated: T**

**Warning: AU-ish, speculation**

**Description: Becoming a Decepticon is by far the most Autobot action Sunstreaker has ever taken.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>It's too easy to be a Decepticon, and sometimes, Sunstreaker worries that it'll stop being a game for him. That it'll stop being pretend and it'll someday be real. It's harder now especially, since Sideswipe is nowhere near. Not even in the solar system as a matter of fact. Their bond is stretched thin, to the point it's almost transparent. To the point that if it were possible, Sunstreaker fears it would snap in two, leaving him alone.<p>

Sometimes, Sunstreaker can hear the echoes of what his twin is feeling. He catches a loud exclamation or a pang of loneliness or a moment of obnoxious triumph. But those are few and far between. And sometimes, it's better to ignore them, too. Better not to have that distraction.

It was hard, at first, being separated from his twin. Having to think without Sideswipe resonating inside him. Having to act when he's just "Sunstreaker" and not "Sideswipe and Sunstreaker." The Decepticons like to remind him that he's been abandoned sometimes, that someday, he'll have to meet his brother on the battlefield. They like to test his loyalty, see if he's truly a part of their cause. Whatever their cause is.

After all this time, Sunstreaker's pretty sure they've all forgotten what started the war, despite having perfect memory.

It's supposed to be a good thing he's doing. The perfect eye on the inside. The Autobots always thought he'd be a Decepticon anyway. He didn't have what it took. He wasn't honorable or soft-hearted enough. They always stared, wondering why he was fighting for the wrong side. They figured that if not for Sideswipe he'd have long defected.

It's too easy to be a Decepticon, and maybe that's his problem. He's here, by his own choice, but not because he's turned his back on Prime and Sideswipe. It's because this is the only way for them to win, for Sideswipe to survive, for this war to end before any more of their civilization turns to ash. Cybertron is already gone. Sunstreaker couldn't bear it if Sideswipe were gone, too.

So here he is, sitting in a Decepticon stronghold, drinking some of the lowest grade energon that's ever passed over his glossa. He's sitting shoulder to shoulder with Thundercracker and Skywarp, listening to the latter bitch about Starscream while the former quietly sips his own poor grade energon. Might as well be an Autobot, that one, and maybe he is, maybe he isn't. Sunstreaker hasn't gotten close enough to tell.

He's here, instead of with Sideswipe on Earth, because here is important. And while the two Seekers are a poor substitute for the hole inside of him where Sideswipe should be, they'll do for now. So long as it keeps Sideswipe safe.

And it occurs to him that becoming a Decepticon is by far the most Autobot decision Sunstreaker has ever made.

* * *

><p>an: Sideswipe and Sunstreaker (and Ratchet) are my absolute favorite Transformers (with Soundwave coming in right at their heels along with Vortex and the triplechangers) so expect to see more of them.

Feedback is love!


	4. Set Fire to the Rain, G1, Prowl

a/n: At last! A G1 fic. I told you these would be in here somewhere. Enjoy!**  
><strong>

**Title: Set Fire to the Rain**

**Universe: G1**

**Characters: Jazz, Prowl, past ProwlxMirage**

**Rated: T**

**Description: Prowl's first break up; Jazz sympathizes. **

**Warnings: Implied mechslash, angst**

* * *

><p>Jazz's quarters are an eclectic mix of order and chaos, something that Prowl only notices in passing as he sits on Jazz's over-sized berth, leaning against the wall. The soft music spilling from the speakers is not helping his mood any, but Prowl had vetoed the idea of angry, heavy metal. It grates on his sensors, even if it better matches his mood.<p>

"Here ya go."

Prowl takes the cube of high-grade that Jazz offers him. "Let me offer a guess," he says, holding up the cube and examining the color of it, nearly translucent. "Wheeljack?"

"Close. Siders." Jazz manages a grin.

"Hmm. I'll overlook it this time." Prowl takes a sip, the clear, bright taste pouring over his glossa smoothly, much better than the nearly low-grade they've been subsisting on.

Jazz hops up on the berth beside him, holding a cube of his own. "Only because it benefits ya, right?" he says, but his cheer is obviously forced.

Prowl doesn't answer, taking a longer sip of the energon. It's good, but it's not enough to wipe his memory core of the things he'd rather forget. Sometimes, there are downsides to near-perfect recollection and long lifespans. This situation right here is one of them.

"Right," Jazz murmurs, and leans toward Prowl, their energy fields overlapping. Jazz's concern blends with Prowl's sorrow and self-recrimination. "Want ta talk about it?"

His doorwings slump, slipping out of their usual high configuration. "You are aware of the circumstances, Jazz. Is it necessary to reiterate them?"

"Helps sometimes."

Prowl shutters his optics. He is not entirely sure talking about the mess that his relationship with Mirage had become is going to help matters. Break-ups, to borrow the human term, are rare among Cybertronians, and this is Prowl's first. Then again, this is also his first relationship. Or was, rather, as it's now over, by Prowl's choice, and the realization that Mirage has been lying to him this entire time. Lying so smoothly it must have come as a second nature to him, as Prowl had never suspected the deception.

Guilt flickers through Jazz's energy field. "I'm sorry, Prowler. I honestly thought this was a good thing." He'd been one of their larger supporters, encouraging Prowl to let Mirage in, convinced that they were a good match.

"Yes," Prowl says, and takes another sip of the high-grade, letting the tingle burn through his circuits. "As did I."

* * *

><p>an: I have about six or so more before I catch up to what I have prepared. Interestingly, I'm actually not a big fan of ProwlxJazz as a pairing. I prefer to think of them as close like brothers. So, alas, you'll never see me write ProwlxJazz.

Feedback is always welcome.


	5. Cinema, TFP, RatchetxOptimus

a/n: Not Bayverse this time but Transformers: Prime. Huzzah! I do hope that you enjoy!

**Title: Cinema**

**Universe: TF: Prime, post episode TMI**

**Characters: OptimusxRatchet**

**Rated: T**

**Description: Optimus likes to watch. **

**Warning for light groping and some mechslash**

* * *

><p>He's standing at the console, servos flying over the various systems, optics trained on the screens, when he feels like he's being watched. His sensors are tuned down at the moment, as he has little fear of being attacked while in the middle of their base, but Ratchet dials them back up again. In a moment he has discerned the identity of the bot – or human for that matter – watching him.<p>

It comes as no surprise.

Ratchet pretends ignorance, hunching down as he stares at the incomplete formula for Synthetic Energon. He will crack this formula. Of course, he could do it a lot easier if Perceptor were here, but such is the way of things.

The ground vibrates as his watcher takes another step, the sound of gears shifting, metal grinding, pistons pumping, echoing around the interior of their headquarters. Ratchet pauses, mid-thought, performing another scan. They are alone. The humans are with their protectors, doing whatever it is they do when Bulkhead isn't here destroying Ratchet's important equipment.

No wonder he is being watched. Clearly, a certain leader has plans.

"I know what you're thinking," Ratchet says, and brings up another screen, tilting his head to consider the schematic he has displayed.

Behind him, Optimus chuckles. "That I enjoy watching you work."

"Oh no," Ratchet replies, shaking his head and refusing to turn around, to acknowledge the lusty look that is surely gleaming in Prime's optics. "You are thinking of taking advantage of our solitude. Not today."

"And why not?" There's the sound of another step, and then servos rest on Ratchet's shoulders, fingers teasing at sensitive seams, Optimus looming over him with a very tangible presence, heat radiating outward. His energy field lapping at the edge of Ratchet's, coaxing him with inviting tingles.

Ratchet's carefully composed refusal slips out of his processor. "... Because."

Optimus chuckles again, leaning forward, his chassis brushing against Ratchet, a small frisson of electricity jumping between them. Ratchet barely fights back his shiver. "That, old friend, is not a logical reason."

His fingers slide away from the console and Ratchet is no longer even remotely focused on the task at servo. "Then you'll have to be quick about it," he capitulates, like always. "I am not explaining to the humans why you have your servos all over me."

* * *

><p>an: I have to admit a weakness for OptimusxRatchet... but only in TFP. lol.

Feedback is always, always welcome.


	6. No Curtain Call, G1, SunstreakerxProwl

**Title: No Curtain Call**

**Universe: G1**

**Characters: Sunstreaker/Prowl**

**Rated: T**

**Description: Sunstreaker is tired of Prowl working all the time. **

**Warnings: implied mechslash**

**Inspired by "No Curtain Call," by Maroon 5**

* * *

><p>A bright yellow Lamborghini stalks down the corridors of the Ark, meticulously polished, without a scratch on him, and the scowl on his face clear for all to see. Wisely, bots move out of his way. Even Cliffjumper decides it's in his best interest not to confront the yellow twin tonight. Hound wonders if perhaps they need to call Sidewsipe, to rein his brother in, but Jazz puts a servo on the Scout's arm.<p>

He can already guess where Sunstreaker is going and he heartily approves. It's beyond time that someone has taken matters into servo.

Sunstreaker barely notices that his fellow Autobots are clearing a path for him. By the time he enters the lead corridor, he's a bit surprised that no one's stopped him. Surely Red Alert is fritzing by now.

His optics count doors until he finds the one he's looking for. He keys open the panel, practically punching the keys, and the door obeys without a single note of refusal.

Sunstreaker strides into the room without preamble, crosses the floor to the desk, and plants his servos down on it. "You're done," he says succinctly. "Put the datapad down."

Across from him, Prowl greets the demand coolly, his doorwings held high and alert, a sure sign of his aggravation. "I do not recall exchanging authority with you, Sunstreaker. Nor did I invite you into my office. Please leave."

Oh Prowl, so polite. Even when Sunstreaker's about to drag him out of here by his audial.

Sunstreaker's optics dial down, a Cybertronian's version of a human's eye narrow. He leans further forward. "You've been here for almost an Earth week. You haven't recharged. You've somehow conned Bluestreak into bringing your energon. Enough."

"You're repeating yourself, Sunstreaker," Prowl says, and lowers his gaze to his datapad.

Sunstreaker does what no one else, not even Jazz, dares to do – he snatches the datapad from Prowl's servos and tosses it over his shoulder. "It's not your fault," he says. "Recalculate in that logical processor of yours all you want, and the answer's going to be the same. You can't account for everything, Prowl. You're not perfect." He pauses, lets the words sink in, and then softens his tone. "No one blames you. And locking yourself in your office isn't going to change things."

For a moment, he thinks Prowl's stubbornness is going to win out. But then his doorwings droop ever so slightly. "What would you have me do?" he asks, sounding defeated.

"You can start by letting me help." He holds out a servo, and when Prowl takes it, Sunstreaker can practically hear the rest of the Ark sighing in relief.

* * *

><p>an: Prowl is... difficult to write. I hope that I did all right.

Feedback is welcome. More fics to come!


	7. Not the Bots, G1, Prowl and Sideswipe

a/n: I blame this on my brain twin, Lady Azar, because she comes up with the best cracky prompts. :)

**Title: Not the Bots**

**Universe: G1**

**Characters: Prowl, Sideswipe, Jazz, Wheeljack**

**Rated: K+**

**Description: Prowl tries to find out the perpetrator of the last prank. But it wasn't Sideswipe. **

**Warnings: None**

* * *

><p>Vorns of serving under Optimus Prime and dealing with the various personalities of the Autobots have left Prowl with the realization that no matter how much he wishes otherwise, there are still times his fellow 'bots can surprise him. There are few more guilty of this than Jazz and Sideswipe.<p>

Which is why when Prowl (and a very irritated Red Alert) discover that someone has somehow reprogrammed Teletraan I to play irritating jingles instead of answering a professional query... Prowl knows who to blame. In fact, he finds the usual suspects laughing it up in the Rec Room with their usual co-conspirators: Bumblebee, Bluestreak, Sunstreaker, and a new addition to their ranks, Blaster.

Red Alert on his pedes, Prowl approaches their table with intentions to demand that they fix whatever they managed to reprogram before both he and Red Alert fritz out. And preferably long before Prime returns from his diplomatic meeting.

"Prowler!" Jazz, of course, notices him first. He greets their arrival with a friendly salute of his energon cube. "How's it goin'?"

Prowl inclines his head tightly. "Today would have gone a lot better if the Oscar Mayer jingle wasn't playing on an infinite loop in the Command Center." Behind him, he senses more than sees Red Alert twitch. Also, he's quite certain the Security Director is glaring at every bot seated at the table.

"Whoa. Someone really did that?" Sideswipe asks, all innocent.

Prowl stares at the red twin. "Yes. _Someone _did."

The usual suspects trade glances across the board until Sideswipe stands (and Jazz leans back in his chair, propping his pedes up on the table like he has no manners). "Well, it wasn't me."

Jazz makes a coughing noise into his palm.

"Or Jazz," Sideswipe amends. More coughing noises erupt around the table. "Or any of us," he corrects again and spreads his hands out in front of him. "We're not the bots you're looking for."

Beside the red twin, Bluestreak starts to giggle. Jazz looks immensely pleased with himself. Prowl is even more suspicious. He leans forward, prepared to state his terms, when Wheeljack noisily enters the Rec Room, drawing everyone's attention, especially Prowl's and Red Alert's, the latter of whom whirls around, startled.

"Have no fear," Wheeljack announces, vocal indicators flashing merrily. "I'll fix Teletraan. Somehow. Eventually. This is only a minor setback."

Silence sweeps through the Rec Room. Bluestreak devolves into all-out laughter. His prankster companions join his humor.

Sideswipe smirks, folding his arms behind his head. "See? I told ya. I think we deserve an apology. All of us."

Prowl twitches.

* * *

><p>an: It's so much fun to mess with Prowl. He's the perfect bot for such a thing, even if he is hard to write.

Feedback is welcome! I'm still catching up on my backlog here.


	8. Moves Like Jagger, Bay, Optimus and Sam

****Title: Moves Like Jagger******  
><strong>****Universe: ******Bayverse, post-2007**_**  
><strong>_**Characters: Sam Witwicky, implied Optimus/Jazz, implied Red Alert/Mirage**_**  
><strong>_**Rated: T  
>Desc: Sam throws Optimus a party.<br>Warnings: implied mechslash**

**Title taken from the song "Moves Like Jagger," by Maroon 5 which was the prompt for this piece  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Sam..." The tone of Optimus' voice can only be identified as pained with a side order of mortified and sprinkled with affection. "The sentiment is appreciated but..."<p>

Optimus trails off, looking helplessly at the party that is in full swing. It is, apparently, in honor of Optimus' birthdate which someone has arbitrarily chosen as February 22nd for reasons the Prime has yet to discern. The largest building in Diego Garcia has been converted into a... well, it's a dance club for all intents and purposes. Which Optimus fully blames Jazz for. There is no possible way Sam could have done this on his own.

A sparkling ball hanging from the ceiling sends an array of colors in all directions. Periodically, glitter and streamers fall from the ceiling. Large speakers hang everywhere, pumping out a bass that Optimus can feel rattling through his armor. Energon is flowing freely, and Optimus doesn't need a sniff to know that it's not their everyday casual grade.

His optics swerve to a suspicious corner where the two main perpetrators of high grade brewing are comparing techniques with a third bot who is the last mech Optimus would have suspected.

The dance floor is packed with Cybertronian forms, moving, grinding, twisting, and stomping to the beat. A raised dais provides a safe platform for the humans to dance as well and Optimus is quite certain they aren't drinking anything innocent either.

And is that _Red Alert_ he sees in the corner with Mirage? Who's monitoring the systems? Watching for Decepticon attacks? Is anyone going to be sober come morning?

"Come on, Optimus. You deserve to have fun just like everyone else," Sam says from somewhere near Optimus' ankle. He raps his knuckles against a piece of plating as though to drive the point home. "This is the way we celebrate on Earth. Welcome home."

The sentiment is appreciated but... Optimus watches, helpless, as Sam dives into the crowd of dancing Cybertronians, full of complete and utter faith that they won't step on him and seconds later, Optimus spies Bluestreak lifting Sam up in his palm.

"Kid's got a point, boss bot," Jazz drawls from where he's perched himself on Optimus' shoulder as though he belongs there, causing their energy fields to intertwine and mingle in a way that Optimus appreciates. One foot keeps tapping in time with the music, as though he can't wait to get out on the dance floor. "Ya do deserve it."

And apparently, Ironhide agrees, because when he passes with Lennox in residence on _his _shoulder, he pushes a cube of high grade into Optimus' hand and salutes.

Optimus surrenders to inevitability. "Very well. But I refuse to dance."

Jazz chuckles, a particular gleam in his visor. "We'll see about that."

* * *

><p>an: Red Alert/Mirage is this pairing I fully intend to write. Eventually. It's rare, but I have a weird affection for it. :)

Feedback is welcome and appreciated. And yes, I do take requests.


	9. Riot, Bay, BumblebeexBarricade

****Title: Riot  
><strong>**

****Universe: ****_**Bayverse, post-2007  
><strong>_

**Characters: implied BumblebeexBarricade**_**  
><strong>_

**Rated: T  
><strong>

**Description: They meet again after the battle in Tranquility, and old pains bring new agony. **

**Warnings: language, mild violence, implied mechslash**

* * *

><p>He's driving innocently down the street, a casual ride meant to help him relax, let his thoughts wander. Music is playing on the radio; he's tapped into the local rock station. Sam will be indisposed for another few hours so Bumblebee has time to kill. He's only halfway listening in on the chatter across the main Autobot line. Right now, Ratchet's being relentlessly teased by Sideswipe for some reason.<p>

It's a Sunday according to the human calendar, which means the streets are, for the most part, nice and deserted. There's something about the pavement beneath his tires, the subtle crackling of bits of rock, the smell of tar and asphalt, that is soothing. Along with the warm sun on his frame and the light breeze coursing over him.

The peace is abruptly shuttered when Bumblebee's sensors scream into alarm, throwing him out of his meditative state and nearly making him swerve. A Decepticon signature is near, too near, getting closer –

_Crash_!

Impact. Bumblebee's tires screech on the pavement, his entire frame rattling from the force of the collision. His attacker is black, ferocious – _Barricade _– slamming into him again and trying to shove him off the road. Bumblebee is forced into a spin, but halfway through he quickly transforms, halting his momentum by slamming his pedes into the ground.

Barricade transforms just as quickly, weapons snapping out in utter threat, his four optics gleaming Decepticon-red at Bumblebee. With a whine of full charge, Bumblebee's cannon comes into play, and they stare at each other from opposite sides of the single-laned street.

"Where's your pet human?" Barricade snarls, but he doesn't immediately attack.

Bumblebee hunches down, sliding carefully to the right, matching Barricade's careful prowl to the left. Circling one another. "Not here," he says, glad that Ratchet's finally fixed his vocalizer. "No revenge for you."

"Maybe I don't care about the fleshie. Maybe I just want to pound on you," Barricade growls, full of threat, but still not making a move.

"Last time, that didn't go so well for you," Bumblebee retorts, something like a sneer in his tone, though he can't approximate the human expression on his faceplates.

"Maybe I let you win."

"That's a lot of possibility. What? Not sure about anything anymore?" Bumblebee revs his engines. "Did I rattle your processors last time?"

"I wish you had," Barricade snarls, more vicious this time, his optics flashing blood at Bumblebee, his tone so savage that the yellow mech is momentarily taken aback.

He startles, pauses, and reconsiders. Old vid-files remind him of their presence until Bumblebee carefully locks them back away. The past is the past. But perhaps... not for Barricade.

Bumblebee snaps his battlemask closed. "You _chose _your side."

"I never had a choice," Barricade retorts and lunges at Bumblebee, all pretense of waiting gone, though his attack is not unexpected.

They clash with a resounding echo and screech of metal on metal, energy fields charged with anger and distrust, and underneath it all, so buried it is impossible to name for sure, lingering traces of regret.

* * *

><p>an: Plenty more ficcage to come. I just have to get off my aft and post it.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	10. Consideration, G1, Prowl and Jazz

a/n: Sorry for the long silence on my end. Life hasn't made it easy to get around to uploading these. Please enjoy.

**Title: Consideration  
>Characters: Jazz, Prowl<br>Universe: G1, pre-series  
>Rating: K<br>Warnings: None  
>Description: Jazz and Prowl have a discussion regarding the inevitable war. <strong>

"War's coming."

"You noticed."

Jazz leans back against the wall, near the shuttered window, affecting a casual lean. "'Course I noticed. Would be hard not ta, what with the way business is tankin'."

Prowl hits the release, the shutters snapping open and letting him look out at bright, shiny Iacon – or what constitutes its dark, shadowy underbelly at any rate. "The Council's wrong, Jazz. Megatron will not be cowed so quickly. This is no mere uprising to be quelled by a brief show of force."

"Is this a guess?"

"Call it a mathematical surety."

Jazz's vents kick on with a loud whuff of air. "Frag. Ya know this means we're gonna hafta choose a side."

"Yes." Prowl pauses, optics tilting downward, to the mechs skittering about in the street, heedless of the doom resting on the horizon. "There will be no such thing as a neutral."

He can feel the brunt of Jazz's gaze, even with the visor. "What ya thinkin' in that logic circuit o' yours, Prowler?"

His servos land on the windowsill. "That Optimus is a young fool, nothing more than a figurehead for the Council. And Megatron is a false idealist with a thirst for power."

Jazz's fingers rap a beat on the sill, a familiar rhythm even Prowl can recognize. "In other words, either way we're fragged."

Prowl cuts a gaze at his companion. "You have such a way with words."

"I try." The teasing note vanishes. "Ya could shift the tides o' this, ya know."

"Yes, but for who?" After all, his processor yearns for the taste of battle tactics, rather than the menial, tedious tasks he's been assigned for his entire existence. Janitorial work is hardly satisfying by any stretch of the imagination.

"Heh, that's the question." Jazz hefts himself up on the reasonably wide ledge, legs swinging. "Well, wherever ya go, I'll follow. I wanna be on the winning side."

Prowl chuckles, hitting the button to close the shutters once again, closing them in the dim. "I'll factor that into my calculations."

* * *

><p>an: Just a bit of speculation on the part of mine and my brain twin.

More fics to come!


	11. Blame It, Bay, RatchetxSidesxSunny

**Title: Blame It**

**Universe: Bayverse**

**Characters: RatchetxSunstreakerxSideswipe**

**Rating: T**

**Warning: implied mechslash, threesome**

**Description: Que's high grade packs a very special punch.**

* * *

><p>Sunstreaker onlines slowly, systems more or less dragging into their boot sequences instead of leaping sharply into awareness. The last to come online are his optics, and that with great reluctance. His joints feel tight, his vents clogged, and his sensors too responsive for his comfort.<p>

Frag but Que's special mix of Praxian High Grade and Earth's highest octane fuel packs a punch. He'd had half a dozen cubes of it. And Sides'd had more than him.

From their bond, Sunstreaker senses nothing but static. Either Sides has yet to online, or he's feeling substantially worse than Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker doesn't want to move, but there's a blinking light in the corner of his HUD, reminding him that his shift starts in two breems. Which is just enough time to drag his aft to a washrack and try to wash out the aches with the gentlest grade of energon.

Something's lying on his right arm. Or shall he say, Sideswipe. With a grunt, Sunstreaker jerks his arm free, rolls over, and promptly rolls out of the berth with a resounding clatter.

Ow. That certainly hadn't helped his systems settle. His tanks roil.

"Huh? Whozawhat'sit?" Sideswipe's mumble floats up from the berth.

"Fraggit! Too early for noise," someone else mutters, sounding grumpy.

Sunstreaker freezes on the floor. Two voices? Slag. This can't be good. He grabs the edge of the berth and drags himself up, bleary optics making out a horrid chartreuse paintjob just as Sideswipe mumbles "Who?"

Recognition floods Sunstreaker's sluggish processor and he leaps to his feet, instantly regretting the too-quick motion when his gyros reel out of equilibrium. "Ratchet!"

Sideswipe jerks upward, sitting up in an instant. "Where?" he demands, and then groans, clutching his helm. "It's too fraggin' bright in here."

"Right here you halfwit," Ratchet grumbles and with a laborious motion, drags himself upward, squinting around the room. "It's too early for this slag."

Sunstreaker's gapes. "You!" he splutters, pointing at Ratchet with one finger. "You!"

"Me," Ratchet agrees. "And for the record, I'm blaming this on Perceptor."

"Did we...?" Sideswipe trails off, as though unwilling to finish. One hand clumsily gropes at his plating, as though he can tell from touch alone. Which is, frankly, impossible.

Ratchet hauls himself off the berth, looking more spry than either of the twins. "Let me know when your memory cores catch up. I'll be in my med bay," he grumbles, and sweeps out of their room without so much as a by your leave.

"Did he just...?"

"Yeah, I think he did," Sunstreaker replies. And then his HUD starts beeping incessantly. Barely a breem now. "Frag!" He rushes from the room, leaving Sideswipe to deal with the aftermath of... whatever that was. Sideswipe's cry of utter betrayal resonates across the bond.

* * *

><p>an: I'll likely continue this one at some point. I'm a sucker for Ratchet. And Twins. And I'm especially a sucker for RatchetxTwins. :)

Feedback is always welcome!


	12. Battlefield, G1, RatchetxJazz

a/n: This happens to be one of my favorite pairings with Ratchet. I hope to write it more. I also intend to write an similar version of this in the future, set in Bayverse. Enjoy!

**Title: Battlefield**

**Characters: JazzxRatchet**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warning: Language, mechslash**

**Description: Already locked in one unending war, Jazz doesn't have the strength to keep fighting another. **

* * *

><p>His anger is like a thundercloud over his helm, lightning sparking in all directions and air rumbling ominously. Wiser mechs have already fled the Bay. Only a couple brave sparks have remained behind, electing to watch the fireworks with glee in their optics. That the twins are these brave sparks is no surprise to Jazz.<p>

Jazz himself has no choice in the matter. Ratchet's cut the mobility to his legs so he couldn't get up even if he wanted to. (Though he can hack through Ratchet's medical overrides and restore function, Jazz prefers the rest of his limbs intact. He wouldn't put it past the Hatchet to simply remove his legs.)

Still, despite the stormy anger, Ratchet's hands are unfailingly gentle as they delve into Jazz's internals, dutifully removing scrap after scrap of shrapnel that had managed to pierce his armor.

"You'd think a member of Spec Ops would have learned to duck by now," Ratchet hisses, outwardly seething, his fury outmatched only by the fear-worry-relief mixture that vibrates in his energy field.

"Ah, come on, Ratch," Jazz replies cheerfully, ignoring the fact that they have an audience. "I did duck. It jes didn't do any good."

A rumble echoes in Ratchet's engine. In the background, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker make simultaneous noises of shocked glee. Previous attempts to get them to leave had done no good, especially since Ratchet's attention had been completely purloined by Jazz's incapacitating injury.

"You and your pit-slagged confidence," the medic all but snarls, though his vocalizer is low, the sort of soft tone that would make even Megatron have a second thought. "Only the twins are worse than you, Jazz, and you know better."

"Hey! We resemble that remark!" Sideswipe comments, not at all offended. Sunstreaker then elbows him in the side with an echoing clang of metal on metal.

Ratchet swings toward them, death in his optics. "Get. Out."

They get. Rather quickly for that matter. Scurrying out as though Slag had breathed fire on their afts.

Huffing, Ratchet returns his attention to Jazz and nearly startles when Jazz reaches up, curling fingers around Ratchet's arm. "I cut access to your motor functions," Ratchet says bluntly, but he doesn't return to work.

Jazz grins cheekily. "Sparkling play and you know it." He gently strokes a finger over white plating. "Forgive me?"

Ratchet lowers his head, optics everywhere but on Jazz. "I can't keep doing this."

He says that everytime. And yet, days later, Jazz crawls back into Ratchet's berth and the medic welcomes him. Each and every time.

Jazz sighs. "Ya really want ta play this game again?"

"It's not a game!" Ratchet all but roars, and then hurriedly dials down his vocalizer again, before too-curious audials try to learn more gossip. "I'm serious, Jazz."

"Ya always are." At least Ratchet is looking at him now, and Jazz meets his gaze evenly. "Say what ya mean, Ratch. Cause this time, I ain't fighting. I'm already locked in one never-ending war, I ain't keepin' up another."

Ratchet's answer is to bend his focus back to Jazz's repairs. The silence that drifts through the Medbay is as unsettling as it is heavy. Jazz, having not released his hold on Ratchet's arm, strokes the white plating softly.

"Is it that much of a bother?" he asks, his spark twisting inwardly.

Ratchet pauses as though considering. "No," he answers finally, vocalizer a bit staticky. "No, it's always been worth it."

He says nothing more. Jazz lets him work in silence, mulling over their conversation. And when his repairs are complete, Ratchet doesn't ask him to leave. There is, instead, a soft request to stay.

* * *

><p>an: I see more of this pairing in the future. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated. I have lots more ficlets to come!


	13. The Greater Good, Bay, OptimusxJazz

a/n: Sorry this has taken me so long. I forget about this sometimes, though I have so many waiting to be posted. :)

**Title: The Greater Good**

**Characters: Jazz, Prime**

**Universe: Bayverse, post ROTF**

**Rating: K+**

**Warning: ref to canon character death, implied mechslash**

**Description: With all decisions, there comes a price. **

* * *

><p>Earth is beautiful in its own evanescent and organic way. It can never compare to Cybertron and will never be enough, but it is adequate.<p>

For now, it will suffice. For now, it is home. A home made more welcome by the arrival of stray Autobots and the return of one thought lost.

He is lucky to have been granted one miracle during his lifespan. Primus is gracious enough to allow Optimus two, though he must wonder if his own resurrection is a curse.

He is so very tired of this war. And it feels like a betrayal of his Autobots and his Prime standing to admit so much. Admit that he longs for peace, that he can't bear to see any more Cybertronians offline – Decepticons included. That it's shattering his very spark far worse than Megatron's blade had.

He longs so very much for the serenity of the Well once again. To have been snatched from it feels like a punishment and that... that is Optimus' personal betrayal. To his Autobots and the Matrix.

"Yer thinkin' heavy thoughts, boss bot," Jazz says from where he's perched on Optimus' chestplate, idly flicking the Prime's windshield wipers.

Optimus reaches up, drags a hand down Jazz's dorsal plating, fingers tracing a thick weld, physically obvious with it's inferior Earth-based forging.

"Do you regret it?"

Jazz tilts his helm. "Do I ever regret?"

Ah. Foolish question. Optimus corrects himself. "Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes." Clawed hands lazily slip between armor plating, toying at sensory lines beneath. "That kind of peace 'n quiet is very enticin'."

He can't conceal a wince. "I apologize. I shouldn't have-"

Jazz tweaks a line, making Optimus' vents stutter. "Shush. I wanna be here. The Well's good and all but... a bot gets lonely." His visor flashes, a tweak with his claws making Optimus shudder. "Sides, ya needed me here."

Optimus' spark thrums. "That I do." He shutters his optics. "You were missed."

Jazz chuckles. "Oh, I know that. Now come on. We don't wanna waste the night off Prowler gave us, do we?"

* * *

><p>an: Oh, there will probably be a continuation of this. I have a secret love of Optimus and Jazz, especially together.

More bits to come!


	14. Fences, Bay, MiragexThundercracker

a/n: I'm a big fan of rare pairings. So here's another one. Enjoy!

**Title: Fences**

**Characters: MiragexThundercracker**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-2007**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: language, implied pnp**

**Description: Before there were factions, the lines still divided them. **

* * *

><p>"You're joining the <em>Decepticons<em>?" Mirage hisses, leaping back from Thundercracker as though he's been burned, nearly yanking out the cords that connect them. "Have you gone glitched?"

Thundercracker bristles, plating clamped down tight, unable to stop the hurt and disappointment from transmitting over their connection. "Yes, I am," he grounds out. "Because you might have a future in the towers, but I'll never be more than a third class citizen."

Or worse. Because he's cannon fodder with a tactician's processor by some trick of Primus. He wasn't meant to be this intelligent, but he is, and it's slowly killing him, as surely as a rust infection.

"Joining that _tyrant _is not going to solve anything!" Mirage sneers and reaches for his port, yanking out Thundercracker's connector and all but tossing it back to him.

Thundercracker, at least, is much more gentle in the way he disconnects them and hands Mirage his own cord. "Neither is your false Prime," he argues, vents kicking on in the wake of his rising tide of anger. "He's a fragged figure head! The Council's makeshift drone!"

Mirage's noble-gold optics brighten in outrage. "Megatron would see everyone deactivated! He's as false as you claim Optimus to be!"

Another retreating step seems most prudent, for his own safety if not Mirage's. Thundercracker stares at his partner, who would have never been his bonded in this society, and wonders if he's been mistaken. If he never really understood Mirage at all.

Mirage is truly beautiful, the sight of him enough to make Thundercracker's spark surge. He's everything nobility and piles of creds can buy. He's also intelligent. Compassionate. Willing to see more than origins or caste. He's a better example of what the nobility should be.

But he doesn't get it. And he never will.

Thundercracker draws up straight, to his full height which towers over Mirage. "I'd rather die for Megatron's ambition than live like this any longer," he says, with utter honesty.

It hurts, it does, but it's a purifying pain. Like he's finally made the right decision. Mirage won't join him, and he refuses to side with the Autobots. This is the only way he can have a future, even if it means one without Mirage.

"You want things changed, I get that," Mirage says, his vocalizer softer now, as though he's realizing something. "But Megatron is not the way to do it. Optimus is different. He's trying, he's-"

"Too late," Thundercracker interrupts, and yes, it does emerge as a static-laced snarl. Another tremor races through his frame, his wings fluttering. "Nothing's going to change unless we take it."

He takes another moment, where his optics look at Mirage from helm to pede, taking in the elegant lines of his high caste frame. The soft, gleaming blue of his paint. The gold of his optics. And Thundercracker's spark flutters with warmth.

In the end, however, he knows that being with Mirage is not enough to satisfy him. He wants his freedom, he wants to be something more.

The Decepticons are the only chance he has to obtain that.

"You haven't even given him the opportunity," Mirage says imploringly.

Thundercracker shakes his helm, taking another step backward. "And I'm not going to. This is goodbye, Mirage."

He doesn't give the noble mech a chance to say anything else, instead activating his thrusters and pushing into the sky. He knows that if he stays, he might let Mirage convince him.

So when Mirage pings his comm unit, Thundercracker ignores it with a ruthless abandon that surprises even himself.

* * *

><p>an: Much more fiction to come. I've just gotta get some time from work to upload them. Feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	15. The Quiet Ones, G1, ProwlxThundercracker

a/n: This one's NSFW at all!

**Title: The Quiet Ones**

**Characters: ProwlxThundercracker**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: pnp interfacing, mechslash**

**Description: In which Autobots are nothing like rumors believe, and neither are the Decepticons. **

* * *

><p>Prowl hisses, pleasure streaking through his system and surging across the link to Thundercracker, deepening the strength of the loop. His grip on the Seeker's right wing tightens, applying pressure to delicate sensors.<p>

Decepticon red optics flare brighter and Thundercracker's claws dig deeper between plates of Prowl's armor. "Oh? You enjoyed that?" The deep purr of Thundercracker's vocalizer thrums over Prowl's plating, making it vibrate in a very pleasing way.

Prowl chuckles darkly, his free hand finding a hydraulic line in Thundercracker's hip and stroking it. The arc of electricity racing over the Seeker's blue plating is a perfect testament to the desire Thundercracker transmits through their hardline connection.

"Are you surprised?" Prowl asks, backing Thundercracker into the door, where his wings make a noticeable clatter against the smooth metal. Anyone passing by could have heard the noise, though they wouldn't know what made it. "Surprised that we Autobots are not what you expected?"

"I already knew that." Thundercracker grabs Prowl's shoulder, hooking a claw in a strut beneath the armor and tugging him closer, their chestplates colliding with another arc of visible energy. "I should have guessed you would like it a little... rough, however."

Prowl smirks and dips his helm, running his glossa over the cables in Thundercracker's neck, eliciting another tell-tale shiver. "Why's that?" he asks.

Vents kicking on with a loud whirr, Thundercracker tugs again at a sensory bundle, drawing a sharp pulse of pleasure-pain that makes Prowl's systems surge with heat. "The humans have a saying."

"Oh?" Honestly, Prowl hadn't realized Thundercracker played that much attention to the humans and their culture. The Decepticons have always appeared to disdain nearly everything associated with 'those flesh creatures'. Unless, of course, it suits Megatron's evil plan of the day.

Thundercracker pushes more pleasure through their link, bombarding Prowl's emotional centers with the intense feelings. It's all Prowl can do to hold back from an impending overload. "Watch out for the quiet ones," the Seeker recites with an almost evil chuckle.

Prowl's hand shifts from Thundercracker's hips to the glass of his cockpit, stroking the glass with the edge of his fingers so that it creates a jarring vibration, sure to resonate through the Seeker's entire chassis. "Hmm. An apt statement, wouldn't you think?"

A wordless growl of appreciation is all the answer Thundercracker can give as he crashes into a tangible overload, dragging an overheated Prowl along for the ride.

* * *

><p>an: Just a little snippet of smut to brighten up your day. Hope you enjoyed!


	16. Show and Tell, G1, Jazz and Starscream

**Title: Show and Tell**

**Characters: JazzxStarscream**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: dubcon, bondage, cross-factional **

**Description: Jazz has a proposal and it's in Starscream's best interest to hear it. **

* * *

><p>Like all warriors, Seekers, and Decepticons, the first systems to boot upon onlining are battle systems, closely followed by peer recognition sensors, and then audials, optics, and higher processor functioning. So when Starscream onlines and registers <em>enemy <em>in close proximity, his first instinct is to attack now and identify later.

He jerks, every intention of rolling off his berth, springing into an attack stance and aiming his null ray at the enemy's spark. However, the loud _clang _of his wrists and ankles being restrained by stasis cuffs immediately put those actions into a halt. Then the rest of his systems online and he finds himself staring up at an Autobot.

And not just any Autobot, but their favorite smart-afted assassin, who's made a perch of Starscream's hips and seems quite comfortable to be seated there, an amused smirk on his lips as he casually aims a vibroblade at Starscream's armored spark chamber.

Well. This is certainly unexpected.

"Can I..." Starscream pauses, glossa sliding over his lips, and performs a systems check. "Can I help you?"

Jazz chuckles, something dangerous, unholy, and altogether arousing in his tone. "Depends," he says, and shifts a bit on top of Starscream, their plating sliding together with a delicious burr of friction. " Do ya got what I need?"

"I don't know," Starscream replies, and gives another token tug to his restraints. They don't budge which is only to be expected. "Do I?"

The Autobot taps the end of his blade on Starscream's armor and then withdraws it with an elegant flip, said blade vanishing into subspace. "Wouldn't be here if ya didn't. I've got a proposal fer ya, Screamer."

There's a moment of furious irritation that Starscream quickly recognizes as bait. So he swallows down the impulse to snap vitriol at the smart-aft Autobot and completely ignores the mangling of his name. "And thanks to your skilled attempt at bondage, I have no choice but to listen to it."

Jazz laughs, and slaggitall to the Pit but an Autobot's laugh shouldn't be so arousing. "I knew there was a reason I picked ya over Sounders." He leans closer, a gleam in his visor, one hand planted on Starscream's cockpit and teasingly scraping the glass. "What if I told ya I know how ta end th' war _and _give ya old Buckethead on a silver platter?"

There's no concealing the surge of interest that sparks Starscream's circuitry. "I'd be more inclined to believe you chained me up for a quick frag," he challenges.

Jazz chuckles again, speaking this time with a tangible purr. "Oh, we'll be gettin' ta that soon enough." His fingers scrape again over Starscream's cockpit. "Interested?"

He shouldn't be but oh frag yes, he is. "Tell me," Starscream says, and smirks. "Or better yet, _show me_."

* * *

><p>an: More of the rare pairings. More ficcage to come. Feedback is welcome!


	17. Energon Pop, G1, MiragexHound

**Title: Energon Pop**

**Characters: MiragexHound**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: foodplay, implied mechslash**

**Description: Mirage has a surprise for Hound. **

* * *

><p>Watching Mirage flutter around his cramped quarters like a hummingbird brings a smile to Hound's face. He has no idea what Mirage has planned, but he can be patient. If only those doubting bots could see Mirage like this, they wouldn't think him so cold and untouchable.<p>

But then, that Hound is the only one with this knowledge makes him feel like he and Mirage are sharing a secret. He likes the sound of that, too.

"Hound."

He looks up, finding Mirage standing in front of him, his hands behind his back and obviously clutching something of importance.

Hound spreads his hands, palms upward, a common gesture to indicate his willingness to accept whatever Mirage has for him. "Yes?"

"Offline your optics," Mirage says, and then pauses, adding, "please."

Intrigued, Hound does as requested of him.

"Do you trust me?"

"You know that I do."

He doesn't have to see Mirage to imagine the soft smile on the Towers mech's lips. "Open your mouth," Mirage asks quietly, a pleased lilt in his vocalizer.

Again, Hound obeys, and is pleasantly surprised when he feels an energon cube pressed to his lips. The scent of it floats to his olfactory sensors. Light. Sweet. Airy. With a crisp bite. This isn't their usual ration.

Mirage tips the cube and the energon slides into Hound's mouth with a pop-pop of sensation over his glossa, chemoreceptors identifying a mix of metals in the energon that arouse a pleased hum in his systems. It's unusual, the way the energon crackles over his glossa, like a thousand ticklish prickles. And the taste? Even more so. Hound has never had anything like it.

"What is it?" Hound asks, vocal tones filled with appreciative glyphs.

"My own special blend. It's new. I thought I'd let you try it first." Mirage all but preens, though Hound has yet to online his optics, he can practically see it. "You like?"

"Very much so." Hound plants a hopeful expression on his face. "Got any more?"

* * *

><p>an: Not so much rare pairing. I don't write either character much so it was an exercise in characterization. Feedback is welcome.


	18. Mad Friends, G1, TracksxWheeljack

**Title: Mad Friends**

**Characters: TracksxWheeljack**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: mechslash, light tactile interfacing**

**Description: Wheeljack has an oops; Tracks is not amused. **

* * *

><p>"Ratchet says that he'll have some new optics ready for you by the end of the week," Wheeljack says, and he sounds half-fretting, half-excited.<p>

Tracks imagines that his indicators are lighting up with shades of blue and purple right now. And imagining is all he's doing because right now, he doesn't have any optics. At all.

Wheeljack's fault, of course. Or maybe his own since he ought to know better than to linger around the engineer when he's off Attempting Science.

The sound of footsteps and Tracks' own proximity sensors alert him to the fact that Wheeljack is still hovering around him. His energy field is tight with fretting.

Tracks isn't angry, per se, but he is a mite.. perturbed. He looks less than stellar right now and that just won't do. "I hope you have a plan for how you're going to make this up to me."

Hands land on his shoulders, nearly making Tracks startle as he hadn't known the touch was coming. "Of course I do!" Wheeljack replies exuberantly. "In fact," he adds with a soft purr of his vocalizer. "I could start right now if you want." His hands slide across Tracks' plating with a buzz of enticing static.

Without his optics, somehow the touch is that much more electric. Tracks feels a shiver race across his circuitry. "I'll take five tins of that special wax you're known for."

"Is that all?" Wheeljack sounds amused, and those talented fingers of his dip into a gap in Tracks' plating, finding and tweaking a sensitive line of cabling. "Well, your forgiveness comes cheap."

"That's only the start," Tracks retorts, a flush of heat spiraling outward, all of his focus pinning down on the delicious teasing of Wheeljack's fingers. Which, by the way, are now dipping into the rims of his arm tires. "I'll have you waiting on me hand and foot."

Wheeljack chuckles, and that's when a hand settles on Track's hip, fingers sliding into a gap in his armor and brushing over a transforming node that's rife with sensor clusters. "I think you just wanted an excuse to acquire a servant. Who knows? Maybe you planned all of this. Maybe... _I_ fell into _your _wicked scheme."

Despite himself, Tracks bursts into laughter, Wheeljack's absurd statements making him shake his head even as arousal threads slowly through his processor. "You, Wheeljack, are insane."

"So I've heard." Amusement is thick in the engineer's tone. "But they said the same thing about you when you took up with me in the first place."

* * *

><p>an: This is the first time I've written Tracks. More exercises in characterization. There are _lots_ of Transformers I've yet to write. And I really need to get more Decepticons in here...

More fic to come!


	19. Contraband, TFP, Megatronus and Orion

a/n: This has only the vaguest relation to the _Exodus _and _Exiles _books. Only if you squint. It is inconsistent enough for me to consider them somewhat-separate continuities.

**Title: Contraband**

**Characters: Megatronus, nameless medic, Orion Pax**

**Universe: TF: Prime, pre-season one**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: Orion has questions; Megatronus is impressed. **

* * *

><p>"Tell me more."<p>

Megatronus glanced from the datapad the mech had tossed to the table in front of him and then back to the mech himself. He was a civilian, that much Megatronus could tell. There was an innocence to his optics, to the way he carried himself. And while he didn't bear the strong, heavy frame of a gladiator, there was something appealing about him. Something Megatronus couldn't quite place.

Perhaps it was the way the mech, Orion Pax, looked at him. Without a trace of fear despite knowing Megatronus to be a killer. His optics were naïve, but also oddly searing, looking right through Megatronus to his core.

Megatronus fought off a twitch as his medic yanked a torn wire too hard, tossing the medic an irritated look. "Are you aware you're reading contraband?" he asked with a smirk, without looking at Orion.

He registered Orion leaning forward from his proximity sensors, planting his palms on the table. "From what I've read, you're not a mech who bothers about such trivial laws."

"Point." Megatronus glanced at his medic. He was as fixed as he needed to be. His self-repair could handle the rest. "Leave us."

He waited until the arena medic left the room before he spoke again. "What do you want to know, Orion Pax?"

Here the archivist displayed his first true hesitation until finally he said, "Everything." Orion paused, his blue optics boring into Megatronus' own. "You... you're right. What you demand, it's not unreasonable. Though I would be claiming a lie if I said I'd considered it before."

Megatronus arched an orbital ridge. "Oh?"

Heat rose in Orion's faceplate, visible even to Megatronus. "Until I read your declaration, I didn't know the name of what I was searching for."

Megatronus leaned forward, ignoring the painful twinge in his shoulder joint. "And you know now?"

Gone was the hesitation. "Yes," Orion replied.

Interesting. Megatronus' lips curved into a smirk. He sat back in his seat, lounging on the wide sofa. "Take a seat, Orion Pax," he said, gesturing to the open chair opposite the table from him. "And tell me what it is that you want."

* * *

><p>an: I absolutely adore the dynamic between Megatron and Optimus in the Prime series. I intend to explore it more.


	20. Celebration, G1, Jazz and Co

**Title: Celebration**

**Characters: Sideswipe, Blaster, Bluestreak, Jazz, Sunstreaker**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: drinking, references to interfacing**

**Description: Jazz and the gang jokingly reminisce about Megatron's master plans. **

* * *

><p>"So then Megatron shows up with a giant purple griffin!" Sideswipe says and bursts into laughter, nearly spilling his cube of high grade.<p>

"No way!" Blaster cackles, one hand slapping Sideswipe's chestplate as he leans against the red twin. "Why?"

"Who cares?" Sunstreaker shrugs, reaching across Jazz for the stack of energon that the Special Ops mech had provided for them. "I'm just glad it was destroyed. That thing was hideous."

Bluestreak shakes his helm, laughter making his frame shake. "It was pretty bad. But not as bad as the one time Megatron's newest grand plan was to enslave the humans. Like human labor is faster or stronger than ours." Bluestreak giggles again, prodding Jazz in the side. "Can I have some more?" he asks, giving the mech his most innocent look.

"I think mebbe ya've had enough," Jazz says, but his words are completely overridden by Sideswipe's loud guffaw.

"Or," he says, vents heaving as he struggles to control himself. "Remember the time that Astrotrain and Blitzwing tried to take over the Decepticons?"

"What? Was old Screamer on vacation or something?" Blaster jokes, and he and Sideswipe clink energon cubes.

"Good one," the red twin chortles.

Sunstreaker shakes his helm. "Idiots," he mutters.

"I haven't had nearly enough!" Bluestreak argues, snuggling up to Jazz. "I only had one and everyone else had at least three and it's just not fair that you treat me like a youngling when I'm older than both of them!" He points at the twins accusingly. "Come on, Jazz. Just one more. _Please_?"

"We're celebratin', Jazz-bot," Blaster says, adding in his two creds. "What could it hurt?"

Jazz, surrendering under Bluestreak's big optics, hands over another cube. "Better volunteer to get him to a berth then."

"Not it!" the twins chorus at the same time, and then shift to glaring at each other.

"He's a clingy drunk!" Sunstreaker says.

"And if we're not allowed to interface him silly then it's no fun," Sideswipe adds.

Bluestreak pouts. "You guys are mean."

Blaster laughs. "Blue, by the end of the night, we're all gonna need an escort to berth."

"I'll drink to that," Jazz says, a grin curving his lips. "Slaggin' right."

* * *

><p>an: Ahhh. Inebriation fun. I never get enough of writing Bluestreak either. He's frickin' adorable. In a badaft kind of way.

Feedback is love!


	21. Sound of Madness, Bay, Sides and Sunny

**Title: Sound of Madness**

**Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, nameless gladiating bots**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-2007**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: battle violence, character death **

**Description: The battle ring is the only time they feel alive, sparks perfectly in sync. **

* * *

><p>The roar of the crowd is loud enough that it rattles over Sideswipe's plating and through his spark chamber. He grins, leaping back to avoid the swipe of his opponent's claws. Too slow, mech.<p>

Beside him, Sunstreaker is toying with his opponent. The larger, sturdier mech bristles with weaponry, but hasn't managed to score so much as a scratch on Sunstreaker's shiny finish.

This bout is ridiculous, so far below their skill level that Sideswipe wonders what their proprietor was thinking to schedule it. They're drawing things out just for the sake of the crowd.

Another skilled twist and Sideswipe dodges his opponent again, lazily ducking up behind the mech and slamming his palm into the mech's helm. The ring of metal on metal barely rises above the din and clamor of the cheering crowd. Another sharp jab of Sideswipe's servo into the mech's neck and he drops, twitching on the ground.

Sunstreaker skates around his own opponent, twin blades cutting a deadly swipe over the back of one leg. Energon spurts in a dull-blue fountain, mingling with the brighter magenta of cooling fluid. The mech goes down to one knee, his other leg useless.

The twins exchange a glance, the heat of battle rising in their circuits. The only time they feel alive, sparks perfectly in sync.

The cheers get louder, making Sideswipe's audials ring. The announcer says something he can't make out, but the rumble in the flooring explains much. Sideswipe turns, seeing the gates to either side of the ring rising, more opponents pouring through the openings.

More victims really.

Sideswipe laughs, flicking his wrist, letting his energon blade slide out of its sheath. Now this is a challenge. Beside him, Sunstreaker is silent, his expression set with deadly intent. Sideswipe can feel the pulse of his brother's spark, however. A perfect contrast, a perfect opposite, complimentary in all the best ways, pulsing the same desire to rend and destroy.

They move forward, together as one, ignoring their half-defeated opponents behind them. They'll finish them with the rest of the soon-to-be scrap roaring their direction.

Blaster fire erupts from the charging mechs. Sideswipe doesn't so much as flinch as it scores his plating. Instead he leaps upward, diving down into the middle of the tangle of mechs sent to slaughter. The first feel of his blade biting into foreign metal is music to his audials. And Sunstreaker is right behind him, a silent but lethal presence at his back. The way things are meant to be.

* * *

><p>an: I love writing Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. They are badaft to the extreme. *grins*


	22. Sneak Attack, G1, BluestreakxJazz

a/n: Part of a string of more... ahem, smutty flashes that are coming your way. Enjoy. :)**  
><strong>

**Title: Sneak-Attack**

**Characters: JazzxBluestreak**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: dubcon, mild bondage, mechslash, tactile interfacing**

**Description: Jazz is not the only one who can be stealthy. **

* * *

><p>Getting the drop on Jazz is an art unto itself. Jazz is so fragging paranoid and his sensors are so finely turned that it is nearly impossible to surprise him. He also has an audial in all of the Ark's events so keeping secrets from him just doesn't happen.<p>

But sometimes... sometimes Jazz can be distracted. By a shiny new album or a new Wheeljack invention or a Sideswipe prank or a Decepticon attack. And sometimes, Bluestreak shamelessly takes advantage of such a distraction. Sometimes he even orchestrates them.

Mirage is a great instructor in the art of stealth, even stealth without the aid of an electro-disruptor. And for the past six months, Bluestreak has let Mirage drill all the best pointers into his processors. It helps that he has doorwings capable of highly tuned sensory input. It helps that Sideswipe is more than willing to help him scheme.

It helps that nearly every bot in the Ark wants to see the tables turned on Jazz. For pure fun of course.

Today, Bluestreak is putting his plan into action. The timing is right, there's a little something to celebrate, and Jazz has no idea this is coming.

Blaster has given Jazz an all new mix of some kickin' tunes sure to make Jazz grin from audial to audial.

Sideswipe surprises him out of nowhere with a brand new batch of high grade, due for testing on Jazz's discerning palate.

And Wheeljack distracts with a bright and shiny, nigh undetectable new array of explosives sure to make any Special Ops mech giddy with destructive glee.

Jazz also believes, thanks to a very amused but not showing it Prowl, thinks Bluestreak's just been sent on a long-range patrol. Oh, how lonely he must be.

Bluestreak follows Jazz around, waiting for the perfect moment, a predator trailing his prey. It's hard. He's all but jittery with excitement, plating threatening to rattle noisily. His frame's heating out of anticipation. It ought to be a very good night.

It takes too long for Jazz to bebop his way back to their shared quarters, radiating glee for all his new goodies. Jazz inputs the code, juggling his precious shinies (his subspace must be full again), and beats at the door panel once or twice. It glitches sometimes.

The door opens with a cranky _shkthunk _and Jazz hops inside, Bluestreak a silent, quick shadow behind him. The door shuts and locks while Jazz hums along with whatever tunes Blaster gave him. Oblivious to Bluestreak watching, lurking.

Jazz is careful as he sets out Sideswipe's volatile energon and Wheeljack's even more volatile explosives.

That is, of course, when Bluestreak strikes. A quick jab to the helm shorts out Jazz's optical feed and an even faster pulse of electromagnetics makes the rest of Jazz's sensory input go on the fritz. Blinded, disorientated, Jazz nevertheless is a formidable opponent.

Bluestreak, however, is prepared. He slaps a pair of stasis cuffs on Jazz's wrists and pins the saboteur between the desk and himself. He presses up against Jazz's back, the vibrations of his engine recognizable, and dips his head to nibble on a sensory horn.

"Gotcha," Bluestreak both purrs and transmits over a personal comm, knowing that Jazz's systems are still struggling to orient themselves. His glossa flicks over the thin plating of the sensory horn, the vibrations of his vocalizer carrying through the delicate metal.

Jazz stifles a moan, but relaxes into Bluestreak's embrace, helm tipping backward onto Bluestreak's shoulder. "Ya sneaky fragger," he says with a crackle of static.

"Of course." Bluestreak chuckles and lets his hands roam, dipping between mostly unreactive plating to the responsive wiring below, caressing them with nimble flicks of his fingers. This time Jazz does moan, arching into Bluestreak's touch. "I learned from the best."

* * *

><p>an: One of my favorite pairings. I intend to write more with them, especially since they are of importance in my Event Horizons 'verse. Bluestreak, I feel, doesn't get enough love of the awesome kind.

Feedback is welcome!


	23. Offers, G1, Tracks and Sunstreaker

a/n: I must confess a weakness for this pairing. **  
><strong>

Come to think of it, I'm weak for a lot of pairings in this fandom. *laughs*

**Title: Offers**

**Characters: Tracks+Sunstreaker, implied SunstreakerxMirage**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implied mechslash, some violence **

**Description: Tracks makes his move. **

* * *

><p>He must be suicidal. That's the only explanation Tracks has for intercepting Sunstreaker's inevitable punch to the wall. The frontliner is stronger, his fist impacting Tracks' palm with a sharp smack. It stings. But it's worth it.<p>

Sunstreaker's energy field flares with surprise.

"You're going to mess up your finish if you do something like that," Tracks says, aiming for an easy grin.

Sunstreaker looks at him like he's never seen Tracks before. "What do you care?"

"Would be a waste," Tracks replies and lets his optics wander over Sunstreaker's frame knowing that the yellow mech would take it as a compliment. "Besides, what did that poor wall ever do to you?"

Sunstreaker drops his hand, shaking his helm. "Not the wall."

Tracks hazards a guess. "Mirage?"

Sunstreaker's answer lacks words, but the flaring of his energy field is answer enough. He and Mirage have been on-again, off-again since they all woke from stasis and their relationship is nothing short of turbulent.

"What was it this time?" Tracks asks.

There's a pause before Sunstreaker grits out, "Difference of opinion."

"On what?"

"Doesn't matter." Sunstreaker turns on a pede, apparently having reached his quota of polite interaction for the day. But he's still tense. Still bothered.

"Does," Tracks insists, sliding in Sunstreaker's path, stopping him from leaving. "You deserve better. Mirage will never get you."

Sunstreaker laughs, a noise of bitter static. "Forget who you're talking to, Towers reject?"

It's a defense mechanism. Tracks can take it. He's a big bot.

"Know who I'm looking at," he replies and gets closer, drops his vocal tones. "I know who's different than public opinion."

Sunstreaker tilts his chin upward. "What are you saying, Tracks?"

Tracks. His designation. It's a step up.

"Open your optics," Tracks says and pulls something from his subspace, something he's been saving. "Realize you have options." He hands it over to Sunstreaker, the expensive tin of wax one of the few he has leftover from Cybertron. "Comm me when you want some help applying that."

He walks off, leaving Sunstreaker staring after him, knowing that he's set the ball rolling. All that's left is to see if the pretty twin accepts his offer.

* * *

><p>an: Set up for something more. I'll see if the I can get the muses to bite. *grins*

I love reviews so feel free to drop one!


	24. Someone Like You, G1, MiragexSkyfire

a/n: Heavily inspired by the song of the same name as performed by Adele. Constant repeat does wonders for the muses.

**Title: Someone Like You**

**Characters: MiragexSkyfire**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implied mechslash **

**Description: Mirage and Skyfire long for the same thing, though each goes by a different name. **

* * *

><p>Skyfire likes to recharge out under the stars as often as he can. Something about the confines of the Ark gets to him every once in a while. Maybe it's a flyer thing. Maybe it's that he's larger than everyone, forced to subspace most of his mass while in root made, and the Ark simply isn't big enough to contain him comfortably.<p>

Mirage can't blame Skyfire for seeking the sky either. He can see the appeal in having the notion to see the galaxy, fooling himself into thinking the nearest dim star is Cybertron. He can almost imagine himself there, back home, in a time before there was war.

Skyfire watches the stars for a different reason. Mirage knows. He never asks, never pries. He doesn't have to.

It's a terribly broken world that Skyfire has onlined to. There's much he still has to mourn. The death of their home, of hundreds of mechs he probably knew and thousands more that he didn't, and the shattering of a much beloved friendship.

Mirage understands. The rest of the Ark doesn't, or can't, but Mirage does.

Missing Starscream, or the Seeker Starscream used to be, doesn't make Skyfire a Decepticon sympathizer any more than Mirage's longing for the Cybertron of old makes him a traitor.

It's why Mirage is here, lying next to Skyfire on the cold, rocky ground outside the volcano. He could be in his shared quarters with Tracks, lounging on a warm berth. But he'd rather be here with Skyfire. With a mech who understands. Who can share his grief.

"Will we ever be able to return?" Skyfire asks, words staticky with longing.

Mirage leans his helm on the shuttle's shoulder. "Of course."

"It won't be the same." Skyfire's free hand rubs at his abdominal plating, which is still scored by laser fire from the earlier battle. By Starscream. "It can't ever be the same."

Mirage reaches over, gently replacing Skyfire's hand with his own, stroking over the damaged plating. Skyfire can't feel it in all likelihood, but the pain here isn't physical. It isn't a matter of scorched sensors.

"No," Mirage agrees, his spark keening with grief. "We can only make do with what we have."

Skyfire takes his hand, pulling it toward his mouth, nuzzling the delicate fingertips. "Is this making do?"

Mirage smiles, his energy field humming with something approaching content. "It's something altogether new." He pauses. "I enjoy it."

The shuttle's plating vibrates, a tangible sign of his own pleasure. "Good."

Somewhere lost in the universe, Cybertron drifts endlessly. Here on Earth, however, Mirage is starting to feel that he's no longer suffering the same, lonely fate.

* * *

><p>an: I have the most trouble writing Mirage and I haven't the foggiest idea why. He's a character who never seems to be given the same personality twice amongst fics. Perhaps that is the reason. *ponders*

Loved it? Hated it? Inquiring minds love to know.


	25. Of Birthdays, Bay, Ironhide and Lennox

**Title: Of Birthdays**

**Characters: Will Lennox, Ironhide, mentions of Annabelle**

**Universe: Bayverse, post-RoTF**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: Ironhide doesn't understand the purpose of a birthday celebration. **

* * *

><p>"I don't get it."<p>

Will frowns. "I know you've got access to the internet."

"Isn't what I mean, Lennox," Ironhide replies churlishly. "Your sparkling – your infant – isn't even mature enough to remember this, much less understand."

"Your point?"

The Topkick shudders around him, the Cybertronian version of an aggravated sigh. "All this effort. Cake. Balloons. Presents. Invitations. Why bother?"

For a long moment, Will is silent. How can he answer this in such a way for Ironhide to understand? How can he put his maelstrom of emotions into mere words?

"When Annabelle was born, do you know where I was?" Will asks, fingers drumming across the steering wheel.

"Judging by your military service record-"

Will doesn't even want to know how easy it is for the Cybertronians to hack into government databases. "Qatar," he finishes before Ironhide can. "I missed my daughter being born. When she opened her eyes for the first time, I wasn't there to hold her."

The silence in Ironhide's cab is more than a little heavy.

"She might not remember, but I will," he continues. "The first of many things I hope to see. Surrounded by friends and family, reminding me what I'm out there fighting for."

He glances at the passenger seat and the neat piles of delicately wrapped gifts. At the beautiful cake and the large beribboned teddy bear.

"This is more for me than for her, really. In the end."

"I see." Ironhide's rumbling vocals hold a note of apology as though his confusion were an insult to Will. "Family-"

"Includes you," Will says firmly, leaving no room for argument. "You saved my life. That makes us brothers. That's what matters."

"Humans have a unique way of seeing things," Ironhide rumbles, and then pauses. "I am honored, Will Lennox."

"Just Will."

"Of course." The Topkick's engine revs, speed ticking upward to the low seventies. "We'd better hurry. We can't be late for her birthday."

Will smiles.

* * *

><p>an: Fluff and fluff. I don't write it often but this prompt called for it. I hope you enjoyed it.


	26. Puzzle Pieces, G1, SidesxSunny

**Title: Puzzle Pieces**

**Characters: SideswipexSunstreaker**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: twincest, dark themes, tactile **

**Description: There's no greater ecstasy, no greater peace, than when they are together. **

* * *

><p>It's like trying to put a puzzle piece into a spot where it obviously doesn't belong. The edges don't match. The ridges and grooves conflict. The picture might seem to fit, if one squints and pretends, but overall, the image just isn't right.<p>

Merging with anyone other than Sideswipe is a lot like a puzzle with the wrong piece. They are half of the same spark, somehow two separate beings, powered by half of a spark. It's illogical. It's rare.

The rules don't apply to them. It's something few Cybertronians can understand. Sunstreaker himself can't even put it into words.

He's tried. He's berthed as many bots as would take him, those enticed by his appearance or emboldened by the act of touching the untouchable. None of them ever fit. Some of them were downright uncomfortable to the point of pain. Like trying to force two opposing magnets together.

In the end, Sunstreaker comes back to Sideswipe and their shared quarters and their shared berth, recharging so that they face each other, sparks thrumming and pulsing, eager to merge again. But they have to be careful. Too deep and they won't be able to separate.

Every one assumes they are automatically bonded due to the nature of their sparks. It's true and it's not true. If they were truly bonded, they wouldn't be separate anymore. They wouldn't be Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. They'd be some amalgam of the two that somehow inhabits two separate frames. Or maybe in the end one of the frames would turn to a grey husk, leaving both of them trapped in the other.

Sunstreaker doesn't care to find out what the end result would be. It's not the sort of thing a medic could fix, not even Ratchet.

And there's nothing – absolutely nothing – like those shallow merges with Sideswipe. The pleasure that electrifies Sunstreaker's systems, that can knock him offline for joors. That makes him tingle for orns afterward.

There's nothing like seeing Sideswipe writhe beneath him, optics practically white, sparks leaping over his plating. Or feeling Sideswipe above him, mercilessly driving him to a sharper overload, the sound of their overworked fans echoing in the dark of their quarters. Or the counter-balancing pulse of their sparks, synchronizing, harmonizing in such a way that the pleasure exchange is seamless. Perfect. Processor-shattering.

Not even a near-core merge with the mechs most tolerable to their half-sparks comes close.

There's no greater ecstasy, no greater peace, than when they are together. Merging. Fighting. Killing. Playing around with other bots for a little fun and games.

It's probably a bit twisted, even for Cybertronians, but Sunstreaker doesn't care. Sideswipe is the other half of his spark in more ways than science can describe. Nothing can change that fact. They're meant to be together as much as they are meant to be apart. Forever bound, forever divided.

* * *

><p>an: I love writing the Twins. I'm sure their relationship has been done to the point of overdone but I can't help my own take on it.

Feedback is welcome!


	27. Jazz, Babysitter Extraordinaire, G1

**Title: Jazz, Babysitter Extraordinaire  
><strong>

**Characters: BlasterxSoundwave, Jazz, cassettes**

**Universe: G1, post-series**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: mechslash **

**Description: Quiet time doesn't exist with the amount of cassettes they have. Not anymore. **

* * *

><p>Between the two of them, they have ten cassettes. If one wants to be technical about it, that equates to ten children, a third of them equivalent to human teenagers.<p>

Quiet time, in other words, does not exist. Nor does private time. Or interfacing time. A fact which Blaster much laments. He likes interfacing. He especially likes interfacing Soundwave.

The children do not make this easy.

Not the eldest, Ravage, who creeps around with all the silence of his alt-mode's namesake. He likes to crawl around the vents, sneak into places he shouldn't be, just to prove he can.

Not their second eldest, the twins Eject and Rewind who can be found at all hours playing the television as loud as possible, having soaked up human entertainment as though they were kremzeeks.

Not their third eldest, the twins Frenzy and Rumble, who share obvious delight in testing each other for weaknesses. It looks like down and out brawling, but of course Blaster and Soundwave know to call it sparring. Prowl and Red Alert, however, do not approve.

Steeljaw doesn't have Ravage's tendency to be sneaky, instead, he likes to be obvious about it. Jumping out, startling innocent bots taking a stroll around the city. And the fact that he can, more often than not, encourage Ramhorn to give him a paw makes for two mischievous cassettes that the night patrol often drag back to Blaster by the scruff.

Laserbeak and Buzzsaw are the best behaved of the bunch. Save for Buzzsaw's tendency to leave energon dustlets around everywhere and Laserbeak's strange inclination, as of late, to build a nest wherever she slag well pleases.

Ratbat is spoiled. As the youngest, he is completely and utterly spoiled by Soundwave much to Blaster's consternation. Spoiling has led to clinging so it's a rare day indeed when Blaster can drag his partner away from their children for some special, alone time.

Like today. Right now as a matter of fact. They've hired a babysitter, or what approximates one considering the dearth of available bots around, and sent out the elder cassettes on "official duties." In other words, here's a cred, go see a movie or something. Just begone!

Now here they are. Alone. Blaster stares at Soundwave, who's staring back at him, expression as inscrutable as ever. And well... it's awkward. Blaster's feeling twitchy. His sensors responding on a hair-trigger, anticipating another embarrassing ping from Red Alert about their wayward children, or just waiting for the ball to drop.

"Solitude achieved," Soundwave says, a hint of impatience in his vocals.

Blaster gives his mech a surly look. "I'm aware of that." His HUD pings him, a reminder that he hasn't had sufficient recharge since, well, forever. Blaster pretty much ignores those warnings on automatic anymore. "On to the berth with ya then."

Soundwave makes a pretty good approximation of a snort, amusement hiding behind it, and hitches himself up onto their overlarge berth. There's a twinkle of mischief in his visor and Blaster watches his mech warily. Just what is the sneaky bot up to?

Blaster climbs onto the berth beside his partner, feeling a fatigue in his struts that makes him feel about Kup's age and not a millennium younger. He ventilates loudly, the berth feeling so fragging comfortable. He settles next to Soundwave, both of them propped up against the wall and each other, and unspools a cable, offering it to his partner.

"This is what we've been reduced ta," Blaster remarks dryly. "No romance. No passion. Just quick 'nd dirty so we can get to th' good stuff."

Soundwave chuckles in that staticky way of his that used to be creepy. "Query: good stuff?" he repeats, taking Blaster's cable and offering his own.

"Energon and recharge," Blaster replies, deadpan, and seamlessly plugs Soundwave into his port, feeling the very moment his partner does the same.

It speaks of their lengthy commitment how easily their systems sync together, the slow idle stream of transmitted sensation coming across within a moment. Blaster's cooling fans kick on with a quiet whirr and he relaxes, plating loosening as the familiar opening chords of their interface trickle through him.

Soundwave, he notices, is as tired as himself. Both of them are strapped for recharge and defrag time along with everything else.

"Multiple cassettes: Blaster's idea," Soundwave points out as he throws an arm over Blaster's shoulder, tugging the red mech into his embrace.

Blaster lightly slaps Soundwave's thigh. "Sure. Blame it on me now. You were the one goading me in the first place." A shudder creeps down his backstrut as stronger pulses of pleasure filter through their connection. Mmm, that's nice.

A loud crash from the next room over startles Blaster so badly he almost jerks Soundwave's cable out of his port which would have been very uncomfortable. "What the frag?"

"Cassettes to blame?"

Blaster sighs, reluctantly disconnecting them. "Got no choice but ta find out." He doesn't miss the spike of irritation in his partner's field.

Together, they leave their shared quarters, the door swishing open with an imagined hiss of annoyance. Down the hallway is a raucous riot of noise that blasts over their audials. Blaster distinctly hears Frenzy and Eject and someone else, someone like-

"Jazz!"

So much for their babysitter. And the saboteur doesn't look the least bit chagrined at all.

No more quiet time tonight. Fraggit.

* * *

><p>an: Humor is fun to write. And so is Jazz. :)

Feel fee to leave a review!


	28. Tricky Science, G1, RatchetxWheeljack

**Title: Science is Tricky**

**Characters: RatchetxWheeljack, First Aid, Jazz, Ironhide**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: Ratchet has an oops. Wheeljack is very amused. **

* * *

><p>"Ratch." A wealth of amusement-concern punctuates his designation.<p>

"Not. One. Word."

Wheeljack grins, flashing bright colors at him. "Don't worry. I promise not to tease you. Much."

Ratchet groans, offlining his optics, and holding back on the series of scans his coding demands he run. "How bad is it?"

"Hmm." He can barely detect the presence of fingers on his plating. "You managed to fuse your dermal layer a bit. Your right hand's scrap." There's a noise of muffled chuckling. "And I bet your dignity's taken a beating, too."

Ratchet unshutters his optics to pin his partner with a glare usually reserved for miscreant Lamborghinis. "This is all your fault."

"Not this time," Wheeljack all but sings.

The inventor is far, far too smug. Ratchet refuses to admit his own embarrassment. He also refuses to acknowledge the fact that they've drawn a crowd. Bots eager for a glimpse of more destruction.

"You're bad luck," Ratchet grouses and makes a tentative stab at movement. Several gears shriek in protest.

Wheeljack pats him on an undamaged shoulder. "Science is tricky, isn't it?"

"All right, Jack, enough gloating," First Aid says primly, finally arriving on scene after pushing his way through the crowd of amused Autobots. "Move so I can get to my patient."

"I'm not gloating," the scientist says as he moves to Ratchet's other side, making room for First Aid to kneel next to the prone medic.

"Yes, you are," Ratchet retorts churlishly.

Grinning, Wheeljack's battle mask slots back as he leans over for a quick, reassuring kiss. "I don't hold it against you."

"Y'know," Jazz says from somewhere in the crowd hovering over Ratchet. "Y'hear about bots taking on the characteristics of their spouses, but this is a bit much, Ratch."

Laughter ripples through the gathered mechs.

Wheeljack preens. "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Jazz."

More laughter.

"I will reformat you all soon as I'm fixed, see if I don't!" Ratchet roars, threatening. He'd shake a fist at them, but frankly, none of his limbs are wanting to respond properly. The explosion must have knocked out a few circuits.

Ironhide and Wheeljack both crouch to lift Ratchet off the floor, since his pedes are incapable of supporting himself.

"Empty threats, Ratch. Empty threats," Ironhide says with a rumbly laugh.

"Don't worry," First Aid adds, patting Ratchet on his shoulder. "I'll get you fixed up as soon as possible."

Wheeljack makes a noise not unlike a smothered laugh.

"Not one word," Ratchet warns his smug partner. "Not one more word."

* * *

><p>an: I completely forgot about updating this. I apologize for the wait. I'll try to do better in the future.

Hope you enjoyed!


	29. Stutter, G1, JazzxProwl

**Title: Stutter**

**Characters: JazzxProwl**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: implied mechslash**

**Description: Lots of love to go around and only one Jazz. **

* * *

><p>Prowl is contemplating recharge over a cube of spiced energon when someone pings his door. It's a bit late for casual visitors.<p>

Curious, Prowl opens his door, orbital ridges lifting in surprise. "Jazz," he greets as the TiC lounges indolently in his doorway. "What a pleasant surprise."

"C'mon, Prowler. It's Tuesday," Jazz murmurs, tilting his helm just so, visor glinting at Prowl in the lowlight of the hall.

Prowl pauses. "I... don't follow your logic." There's nothing special about Tuesday as far as he's aware.

Jazz's lipplates curl in a slow smile. "Tuesdays are for the quiet ones," he purrs and presses forward, Prowl backing into his quarters without truly understanding why he's doing so.

"I..." Prowl trails off as the circuits finally connect. "You have a schedule?"

Jazz's hand reaches out, fingers splaying over Prowl's chestplate. "Sorta." He laughs as he caresses a headlight. "Lots of love to go around and only one Jazz. If ya know what I mean."

"You... I can't..." Prowl splutters, unable to form a coherent statement. A schedule? Is Jazz serious or is this just another case of his questionable sense of humor?

Jazz's energy field flares outward in a tingling invitation. "You don't want to?"

Any attempt at clinging to composure eradicates itself at the noise of Prowl's cooling fans kicking on with a roar. "I said nothing of the sort," Prowl replies smoothly as his aft collides with his berth.

Jazz smirks. "You haven't said much at all, Prowler," he teases, crowding Prowl against the berth, glossa sliding teasingly over his lipplates. "Don't let me break your processor. Ratchet'll have my tailpipe and ream me a new exhaust."

"For you that's hardly a punishment," Prowl says wryly, placing his hands on Jazz's hips and tugging the saboteur closer. He doesn't know a single mech who could turn away an eager Jazz. Not even himself. "Hedonist that you are."

"Guilty as charged." Jazz's knee rises up, stroking an electrifying path across the insides of Prowl's leg. "What do ya say, Prowler? Wanna share a berth tonight? I got magna cuffs in my subspace."

Heat flares through Prowl's frame. "Only if I can use them on you." It would do the feisty saboteur some good, Prowl thinks.

Jazz laughs. "I'd be offended if you didn't."

Ever so diligent, Prowl prudently sends a message to Prime that he'll be late for his shift tomorrow. Best to be prepared.

* * *

><p>an: Jazz has lots and lots of love to give. He even has a schedule. lol. I might write a follow up to this, detailing his schedule. *grins*


	30. The Chase, G1, SunstreakerxSideswipe

**Title: The Chase  
><strong>

**Characters: SideswipexSunstreaker**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: twincest**

**Description: Sunstreaker's fast, but Sideswipe's faster. **

* * *

><p>Sunstreaker's fast, but Sideswipe's faster. It's by a bare margin, but just enough to keep Sideswipe ahead of his twin, speeding down the open road with the wind roaring over him and setting his sensory net aflame.<p>

He can feel Sunstreaker chasing him down, feet from his bumper, tires screeching over concrete. Sideswipe is giddy with excitement. Giddy and something else, something a lot like arousal that's making his engine growl and thrum. He puts on another burst of speed, taunting, daring his brother to follow.

Catch me if ya can, his speed says.

He's long since dismissed every one of Prowl's furious comms to slow down and obey human traffic laws. He's sure that both he and Sunstreaker are going to be in the brig for a month by the time they get back. But it's worth it. Frag yes, it'll be worth it.

Sideswipe takes a corner too hard and nearly loses control, skidding off the pavement and into the open plain. He kicks up dust into the air, refusing to let himself get caught so easily. If he could just make it to that rock formation, they'll at least be out of plain sight.

Behind him, Sunstreaker executes a perfect swerve and takes off after him, the rumble of his engine enough to make Sideswipe's systems send more charge crackling through him. Anticipation throbs through his spark, hot and heavy. The uneven landscape jars his undercarriage. He's losing speed.

Sideswipe's fast, but Sunstreaker's heavier. He's got better traction. And for once, he doesn't even care about his paintjob. If the irritation coming across their link is any indication, Sideswipe's in for it when he finally gets caught. Payback for the dirt.

Sideswipe can't wait.

"Getting slower in your old age, Sunny!" he calls out, just because he's not happy if he's not pissing his brother off.

"You can't run forever," Sunstreaker replies, tone cool but unable to hide the anticipation in his energy field either.

Sideswipe laughs, gun his engine, only to yelp when a dry bush appears in front of him. He swerves to avoid, right tire catching on a small pit in the landscape, and gets sent flying. Whoops.

Instinct forces him into root mode and battle agility puts him back on his pedes before he tumbles head over heels and finally lands in a sprawl on his back, jarred but unharmed. In a history of wipeouts, that one hardly counts as a three.

Dazed, he has maybe a second to think about scrambling back to his pedes to keep the chase going before he hears the unmistakable growl of a high performance engine. And then the sun is blocked out by a gleaming yellow frame and Sideswipe is pinned.

"You!" Sunstreaker huffs, optics a bright streak of arousal-irritation-concern.

Sideswipe laughs and tries to roll out from under Sunstreaker, but as stated before, Sunstreaker's heavier. And faster when his processor's not just been jarred by a wipeout. He grabs Sideswipe's wrists, slamming them down into the dirt, dropping the force of his weight down on Sideswipe's chassis.

"Stay," Sunstreaker says, exventing loudly, his plating vibrating from amped up charge, his energy field fluctuating with need.

Sideswipe grins and shoves a hard pulse of want-now-need at his brother, bucking up to slide plating against plating in delicious friction. "Not going anywhere," he promises. "C'mon, Sunny."

"Don't call me that," his twin replies and leans closer, their faces in tantalizing proximity. "And no, it's not going to be that easy. You're going to have to beg for it."

Oh, boy. It's going to be a long day. Sideswipe's going to love every minute of it.

* * *

><p>an: Yeah, it's been forever since I updated. Sorry about that. Real Life got complicated. :(

On a side note, if anyone's following my livejournal, this is where I'm pulling these from. They are flash fiction written from reader requests that I open up once a month. I announce the day ahead of time on a sticky post. The next one happens to be this weekend, October 19 through 21st if anyone wants to stop by and say hello.


	31. Mechasexual, G1, Raoul and Spike

**Title: Mechasexual**

**Universe: G1**

**Characters: Spike, Raoul**

**Rating: T**

**Warning: None**

**Description: In which Spike questions his sexuality and Raoul spittakes.**

* * *

><p>"How would I know if I'm gay?"<p>

Cola suddenly splatters the tabletop. Wow. That's the first time Spike's ever seen a real spit-take. He didn't think it actually happened outside of the movies.

Raoul wipes his mouth, glaring at Spike. "What?" he demands with a throat-clearing cough. "How the hell should I know?"

Spike gives him a long look, arching an eyebrow. "Don't you have gaydar or something?"

Oh, look. There goes more cola.

"Gaydar!" Raoul splutters. And the tips of his ears turn red. It's kinda cute.

Spike leans his chin on his palm, staring at the other teen. "What kind of gay man are you if you don't know what gaydar is?"

"Gay!" Raoul starts choking on what appears to be both his cola and his own breath.

He coughs, one hand waving indignantly through the air as he sets his cola bottle on the table.

"I'm not!" Raoul manages with another glare, though watery-eyed this time. "I'm not... _Chicas_, Spike, _chicas_! I like them. Why would you...?" He shakes his head, coughs a few more times.

Spike shrugs, more than a little amused by Raoul's over the top reaction. "Everyone thinks it." Everyone, of course, meaning the Autobots because right now, they are the entire extent of Spike's social circle including Chip and Carly and of course, Raoul. "You and Tracks-"

"-are friends!" Raoul yells, voice reaching an unfortunate pitch as his hands flap through the air. "Just friends!"

To paraphrase Shakespeare, the gentleman doth protest too much.

"Besides!" Raoul continues, pointing a firm, defiant finger at Spike. "You got no room to talk, _amigo_. Tracks has told me all about you and the Volkswagen."

He gives the other teen a long look. "That would be another case of just friends, Raoul. Besides, he's a 'bot and I'm human. Would never work."

Raoul snorts, grabs his cola and takes a long swallow of it, managing not to lose any this time. "Yeah, tell that to Astoria."

Spike grins. "Poor Powerglide."

"Don't feel sorry for him, _amigo_. What I hear? He likes the attention."

Both teens chuckle at that. Powerglide really is a mech after attention, big old drama flier that he is. But then the laughter trails off and Spike's reminded of the reason he sought out Raoul for this little one-on-one conversation.

"Seriously, Spike," Raoul says, leaning on the table. "What makes you come out and ask me a weird question like that?"

He shrugs, feeling his ears burn on the tips. "Just wondering."

"You ever kissed a dude?"

Spike sinks in his chair. "No."

"Thought about kissing a dude?"

He sinks even further, mumbling a soft, "No."

Raoul shakes his head and sits back, "Then if you are gay, you are the worst gay man ever. Chill, _amigo_. Looks like it's still the _chicas _for you."

Now nearly hidden beneath the table, Spike manages a smile. Good to know he supposes, but what does that say about his attraction to Jazz?

* * *

><p>an: Who isn't attracted to Jazz? Seriously. lol. Poor, confused Spike. Also, I'm with Spike. Methinks Raoul doth protest too much. Just finished watching "Make Tracks" and "Auto Bop" again and those two are adorably funny.


	32. Smiles, G1, Sunny and Sides

**Title: Smiles**

**Universe: G1**

**Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker**

**Warnings: Unrepentant fluff  
><strong>

**Description: Sunstreaker has a favorite.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Sideswipe smiles a lot.<p>

He has a grin for every occasion. A smirk for when he's plotting something nefarious. A leer for the fortunate mech next on his conquest list. A simper for the minibots or Ratchet on the warpath. He beams when he's happy or pleased with himself.

He smiles at everyone for any reason. There's not a single individual on the Ark that Sideswipe doesn't like, though there are a few that can be irritating. He's everyone's friend.

It comes easily to Sideswipe. The way his optics sparkle. The tilt of his helm. The curve of his mouth components. The friendly ripple in his energy field.

He smiles brightly. Boldly. Shyly. Coyly.

He teases and incites, encourages and apologizes.

Sideswipe's smile, in all its many forms, will always be a thing of beauty to Sunstreaker.

Each one is like a new and different side of his twin. They are part of the same whole but that doesn't mean Sunstreaker knows everything about his brother. They both have their secrets, things that they keep to themselves, buried in partitioned portions of their memory or databanks.

Sunstreaker has a datapad full of nothing but sketches of Sideswipe's smiles, usually in whatever context they are given.

His favorite one, though, is the smile Sideswipe gives when he thinks no one is watching.

Sunstreaker's caught him several times, tightening his end of the bond so Sideswipe doesn't know he's there, standing in the shadows of the rec room, watching Sideswipe watch the Autobots.

Sometimes, their fellow 'Bots aren't doing anything more than crowding around the vidscreen for the next episode of _As the Kitchen Sinks_. Usually, Sideswipe would be right up there with them, jostling for space in the front.

Sometimes, though, he hangs back and just watches the Autobots instead of the show. And in turn, Sunstreaker watches him.

The Autobots are the closest thing the twins have to a family. And his smile is fond, indulgent. It's soft around the edges, completely erasing the devilish aura that usually surrounds Sideswipe.

And sometimes, Sunstreaker onlines from recharge, activating a tertiary optical sensor to see Sideswipe watching over him in recharge. His optics are fond then, too. One hand lightly strokes Sunstreaker's plating, their bond brimming with affectionate feelings. Sunstreaker pretends to still be deep in recharge so he can capture that image, later translate it to his sketchpad.

It's the smile no one else sees, that makes Sunstreaker's spark do an odd flip inside its chamber, and he cherishes each glimpse of that illusive expression. Despite Sideswipe's noise and bluster and teasing and attitude, that smile is everything that makes up Sideswipe's spark. And Sunstreaker loves him for it.

* * *

><p>an: Fluff. I don't do it often, but when I do, it's all cotton-candy. Heh.

Hope you liked!


	33. Catch Me If You Can, G1, Hound and Ravag

**Title: Catch Me If You Can**

**Universe: G1, post-war**

**Characters: Hound, Ravage, Jazz, Smokescreen, Prowl, Cliffjumper**

**Warning: Slight ooc? **

**Description: New partners bring new challenges.**

* * *

><p>Hound roared as he skittered around a corner, narrowly avoiding a collision with Jazz.<p>

"Sorry!" he gasped, catching his balance and scrabbling back into a run.

Jazz's laughter followed him down the hall. "Good luck!"

Could've helped, Hound grumbled to himself.

But no, that wasn't how this game was played. He was on his own.

His sensors bleeped. Hound took another turn, his target just ahead of him but moving fast. Four legs were faster than two. Wheels even more so, but Hound didn't dare transform.

He could get away with running through the halls but Prowl would put him on cleaning duty for a month if he left tire treads on the floor again.

Hound called up a schematic of the Ark. There. A short cut. Head off his target without having to chase. Perfect.

Hound skidded to a halt, dove into a small byway, and twisted to avoid Smokescreen, who wisely flattened his doorwings in the nick of time.

"Three to one odds!" Smokescreen shouted at him with a large grin.

No help there either.

Hound emerged into another corridor, backtracked a bit, ducked through the rec room and exited out the other side, attracting a sizable crowd in the process. His sensors zeroed in on his target, coming round the corner.

Hound pounced.

"Gotcha!"

The resulting clash of metal on metal could be heard seven hallways over in the medbay. Ratchet was probably scowling.

Hound grinned, victorious.

In his arms was a hissing, squirming bundle of disgruntled metal feline.

"Hey! Watch the claws!" Hound protested as cybertronium-sharp talons tore four gashes in his paint.

Ravage snarled, optics promising dire retribution.

A round of applause began from their gathered audience. Somewhere, at the back of the crowd, Smokescreen was collecting his winnings.

"Bath time again, I presume?" Prowl's dry tone made Hound grin sheepishly.

"And I thought Spike was joking," Hound replied.

"This from the mech happy to spend his day in mud pits," Cliffjumper teased. "Someone should make _you _take a bath."

Laughter rounded out the applause.

"Ha, ha." Hound struggled to keep his grip on the feisty, former cassette. "A little help?"

Amazing how quick the Autobots could scatter.

Their absence, however, garnered an immediate cessation of hostilities.

Hound sighed. "You do this on purpose, don't you?"

Ravage grinned toothily, leaping out of Hound's embrace and making a show of stretching his back strut. "Got to keep you on your toes somehow."

Hound shook his helm. His brand new partner's been a challenge since day one.

"C'mon, you. Time for a bath."

Ravage laughed. "You first."

* * *

><p>an: Two characters I don't write often. Hope they're not that OOC.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated!


	34. Suppliers and Buyers and Thieves, G1

**Title: Suppliers and Buyers and Thieves**

**Universe: G1?**

**Characters: Swindle, Chop Shop**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: Commercial tight rope walking, thy name is Chop Shop.**

* * *

><p>"Very nice," Swindle said as he eyed the array of assorted items his newest supplierbuyer had brought him.

The Insecticon clicked his mandibular array. "Thanks," he replied, digits rapping on the table top. "What do I get for it?"

Swindle rubbed his chin, contemplatively. "Let me check my stocks."

He turned, heading into a small back room that he'd carved out for his own use. Onslaught allowed it because, and Swindle quoted, _"I don't give a frag what you do, just don't get caught."_

Swindle dug through a pile of purposefully unorganized mess for a datapad with a cracked screen, gouged interface, and blackened on the edges. In short, it looked completely busted and therefore useless.

Looks could be deceiving.

Swindle powered up the datapad using a series of key presses and wire tweaking and left the room, returning back to where he left Chop Shop.

"Let's see," he said, pulling up his requisitions log and comparing it to Chop Shop's offerings.

Wait a klik.

Weren't there three transistors earlier? And Swindle could have sworn there was a portable solar collector, too.

"Uh..."

"It's good stuff," Chop Shop said with a fanged grin. "But not really above the line so maybe you should be quick?"

Right.

Suspicious, Swindle decided it was in his best interest not to ask. He could be wrong and it would be bad for business if he admitted to not paying attention.

"Hmm. I do need all of those power cells. A certain mech has promised me some high grade in exchange for a stock of that exact grenade." He pondered his list. "And Onslaught demanded a transwarp generator just last week."

A generator, by the way, which was no longer on the counter in front of him. And the last couple of transistors were now gone.

"Great!" Chop Shop said with bright enthusiasm. "What'll ya give me?"

Swindle stared at the Insecticon. Something wasn't right here. There was no way he was mistaken twice in a row.

"Where's the transwarp generator?"

"The what?" Chop Shop tilted his helm, confusion writ into his energy field.

Swindle stared at Chop Shop, who looked at him with such innocence, Swindle might have been standing in front of an Autobot. The Insecticon's talons were no longer visible on the counter, instead tucked behind his back.

"The generator." Swindle set his datapad down and leaned on the counter. "It was here. Two kliks ago."

"No, it wasn't."

Swindle cycled down his optics and circled around the counter, approaching Chop Shop. The Insecticon was much larger than him but Swindle tried not to focus on that point. He had Vortex on speed dial. Everyone was afraid of Vortex.

"Are you trying to pull one over on me?" Swindle asked, attempting to peer behind Chop Shop with limited success.

Chop Shop turned with Swindle, keeping his talons behind his back. "Pull one over?" He tilted his helm. "I'm just trying to sell some stuff. Plain and simple."

Stuff that kept disappearing! Swindle didn't fall off the stock shuttle yesterday! Chop Shop was messing with the wrong requisitions master.

He backed Chop Shop away from the counter. "Oh yeah? Where's the stuff?" Swindle demanded, tossing a servo toward the counter.

Which looked emptier than it had before. Swindle stopped and stared. The only thing left on the counter was a sad-looking blaster that was out of date three millennia ago.

Anger broiled inside of him. "And where's my datapad!"

Chop Shop lowered his helm, radiating guilt.

Swindle's engine revved. "Did you take it?"

No response.

Swindle ground his denta and shoved his servo toward Chop Shop, snapping his digits. "Give it. Now." He surprised himself with his own courage. The Insecticon could squash him in half an astrosecond.

But Chop Shop just drooped his shoulders and dug the datapad out of his subspace, handing it over.

As he did so, several things tumbled out of an obviously crammed subspace, including the transwarp generator, the power cells, and all of the transistors.

Unbelievable!

Swindle's jaw dropped. "Did you just steal from yourself?" And, also, from Swindle, too but he was too shocked by Chop Shop's gall to get angry. In fact, he found himself amused.

"No...?"

Swindle covered his optics with his palm. He subspaced his datapad. "My friend," he said, attempting to sling an arm over Chop Shop's shoulder, but being too short, only managed to snag the Insecticon's elbow. "You need a few lessons in this business. And I'd be happy to provide them. For a small fee of course."

The sound of metal hitting metal reverberated through the small room. Swindle looked down, watching the stylus from his datapad hit the ground and then roll across the floor, bumping up against his pede. Apparently, Chop Shop had taken that as well.

Swindle shook his helm. "We'll start with rule number one," he said, and led his newest partner in crime from the room.

* * *

><p>an: Sorry for the long silence on my end. Real Life and then NaNoWriMo hit hard. I'm going to try to keep up the uploading, so long as I have fic to work with.

Feedback is welcome!


	35. Pirates, Bay, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker

**Title: Pirates**

**Universe: Bayverse**

**Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Prowl, Ratchet**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: Rules. They're more like guidelines.**

* * *

><p>Their comms bleeped at precisely 6:03pm, when they were three minutes late for their shift.<p>

Sideswipe looked at Sunstreaker who ignored him in favor of attacking a splotch on his armor.

"Don't worry," Sideswipe said, leaning back on their berth with his arms locked behind his helm. "I'll get it."

He switched to his comm, making certain to broadcast it aloud so Sunsteaker could listen in and comment if he pleased. He also responded aloud, to make it easier for Sunstreaker to not miss a single, amusing detail.

"Yes?" Sideswipe used his most saccharine tone, interspersed with underlying glyphs of wide-opticked innocence.

"Are you injured?" asked Ratchet, rather hostile at that, and certainly not the officer Sideswipe would have expected.

Well. Two commanding officers with one prank. Even better.

Sideswipe grinned. "Not to my knowledge. Sunny, what about you?"

"I'll have no part of this," his twin replied. "And don't call me that."

"Nope," Sideswipe said to Ratchet. "All's well here. How are you?"

Ratchet growled.

Prowl intervened. "You did receive your schedule for this week, correct?"

"It's on our wall," Sideswipe said, glancing at the huge piece of paper heavily pockmarked from being used as target practice.

"Then I will be seeing you and your brother on the tarmac in two minutes."

"Actually," Sideswipe said before Prowl could end the comm and consider the situation resolved. "You won't."

Prowl's frosty glare could not be seen but Sideswipe could frag well feel it. "And why not?"

"You're going to get us slagged," Sunstreaker muttered, subvocally, so that their superior officers could not hear.

"Have a little faith, brother mine," Sideswipe retorted, equally subvocal.

He checked his chronometer. Just about time. Sixty more seconds. Need to stall Prowl just a little more.

"Because," Sideswipe replied. "We're pirates."

"What?" Prowl said with a hint of exasperation. "No. Nevermind. Either show up for your shifts or I will send someone to escort you to the brig."

"Since when do we have a brig?" Sunstreaker wondered aloud.

Thirty seconds...

"Good point!" Sideswipe said with a flash of amusement. "We don't have a brig, Prowl."

"Then I'll turn you over to Ratchet's tender mercies."

"Ooo. Scary." Sideswipe crossed one wheeled pede over the other, idly watching the tire spin.

"I don't appreciate being used as a threat, Prowl."

Ten seconds...

Sideswipe grinned, positively giddy.

Prowl ex-vented loudly. "Sideswipe."

"Nope," Sideswipe sang. "It's against our moral code. As pirates. Guidelines really, you know."

"You're what?"

Right on cue, the basewide PA clicked on, a jaunty tune crackling through the speakers.

_"We are the pirates who don't do anything. We just stay at home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything. We'll just tell you... we don't do anything." _

Sideswipe snickered, his spark surging with amusement as the song continued. "That's what."

He cut off the comm as Prowl sputtered and Ratchet growled again.

Sunstreaker shook his helm. "Sometimes, I wish I was an only spark."

"Your life would be boring without me," Sideswipe reassured his brother, and happily sang along as the song cycled back to the chorus.

Bonus Scene

Prowl gritted his denta, the annoyingly addictive tune stuck on repeat. And apparently Blaster was having a difficult time cutting off the loop.

"You have to give him credit for creativity," Ratchet said.

"He'll see how creative I am when they're on punishment duty for a month," Prowl snarled, doorwings hiked high with aggravation.

"Punish Samuel, too, while you're at it."

"Why?"

"He's the one who gave them the DVDs." Ratchet paused. "You're lucky he didn't serenade you with _Barbara Manatee_."

Prowl's optics fritzed. "What?"

* * *

><p>an: Hopefully, more updates to come.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated and muse-inspiring!


	36. Happenstance, Bay, MiragexThundercracker

**Title: Happenstance**

**Universe: Bayverse**

**Characters: Mirage, Thundercracker, First Aid**

**Rating: T (for battle gore)  
><strong>

**Description: Companion to "Fences". This is not how Mirage pictured his end. **

* * *

><p>Invisibility means slag when it comes to avoiding Decepticon fire. He can hide himself, blend into the shadows, hide in plain sight. But it only takes one misaimed shot that he doesn't avoid for his special ability to be useless.<p>

Not for the first time does Mirage regret his arrogance in preferring such an expensive mod. But no. He wanted to be unique. Special. Different from all the other towerlings and their flashy frames and paint jobs and pets and servants and personal, turbo-charged racers.

He wanted to be as invisible as his commissioners often made him feel. That, perhaps, had convinced him the most.

Now, here he is, dying on some battlefield amongst Autobots and Decepticons alike, having accomplished nothing he set out to do, having failed at everything, and with little to show for his efforts.

He can't transform. He can't call for help. Can barely move, truth be told, and certainly can't seem to twitch himself out from being buried by the dead airframe half-draped across his chassis. By the time some Autobot stumbles across him, if they even bother searching the battlefield for survivors, Mirage will be offline. Cold and grey.

This is not how he imagined his spark would extinguish.

His commissioners would sneer, Mirage thinks. They would have considered it a fitting end for a mech who turned so far from what they wanted. If they were still online, that is. But they aren't, because the Towers were the first to fall.

A bitter crack of a laugh escapes Mirage's vocalizer, loud amidst the after-battle silence, the cooling pings of once-heated metal, the faint groaning of another mech gradually turning grey in the distance, the drip-drip of a mech bleeding out.

Oh, wait. Maybe that's his own energon.

No, this isn't at all how Mirage pictured his ending. Or his function. Or any of it really.

Mirage's audials twitch. Overhead, he hears a low, rumbling sound. Engines. Jet engines. Seekers. Probably doing a sweep of the battlefield, checking for emergency signals, the usual. Easier for a Seeker to do a fly by than for ground vehicles to pick their way through the rugged, frame-strewn terrain.

The engine stalls. It gets louder. Closer. There's a harsh thump. The ground beneath Mirage trembles, his sensors struggling to make sense of the vibrations. Metal rings on metal. The Seeker has landed nearby.

Mirage's ventilations stutter. He struggles to online his optics. One is cracked, useless. But the other powers on in fitful bursts, giving him a bleary view of a large, dark shape approaching. He resets his optics again, hoping for a clearer picture.

The Seeker gets closer. Lifts a frame near Mirage's. Small, minibot maybe. Only the Seeker tosses it aside with a disgruntled grind of gears.

The Decepticon is within striking distance now, not that Mirage can move. He sees that helm swivel his direction, gleaming red optics bright to Mirage's fuzzy vision. The weight disappears from Mirage's chassis.

He makes a sound, a soft cry of pain escaping him. The empty frame had been heavily armored, spikes protruding every which direction, and one had pierced a line in Mirage's thigh plating. Energon pulses sluggishly from the wound. Guess he doesn't have much to spare.

Above him, the crouching Seeker makes a contemplative hum. "Got a live one, Screamer," he says aloud.

There's a pause. Mirage tries to move, but gets nothing. His fingers twitch. His vocalizer spits static.

Death would be preferable to the Decepticon prison camps.

"You sure? Could be useful as a trade or something."

A chill trickles down Mirage's backstrut. He attempts to activate his shoulder cannon, but error readings flash over his HUD.

His vision clarifies, the face of the Seeker coming into better detail. Not that it matters. In the end, one Decepticon looks like all the others.

"Whatever you say, Commander."

The Seeker's attention turns entirely to Mirage, optics gleaming in an unsettling manner.

Mirage reroutes a fair majority of his efforts to his vocalizer. He can't move, but he'll be fragged if he onlines without so much as a sharp word exchanged.

"Offline me," he challenges. Anything to avoid becoming a prisoner. "I'll tell you nothing."

The Decepticon stares at him for a long, confusing moment before he clucks a crude Seeker glyph. "You never could tell us apart, could you, Mirage?"

His spark surges. It's improbable.

"... Thundercracker?" The designation is little more than a static-laden whisper. His entire frame twitches. "You're still online."

But protoform grey now. His stripes and colors are gone. Abandoned or stripped from him, Mirage doesn't know. He's heard rumors but that's all. He can't see anything of the lovely turquoise that Thundercracker used to bear.

All he can see is that hideous Decepticon sigil stamped proudly on his once-lover's chestplate.

"Autobots can't bring me down that easily," Thundercracker retorts, his optics making a broad sweep of Mirage's mangled frame. "I say you've got ten breems before you grey out. Probably less."

"... Orders?"

"What else?" One of Thundercracker's talons drags lightly down Mirage's chassis, though he takes care to avoid the huge blaster wound. "One shot to the spark and another to the helm for good measure. You Autobots have the nasty tendency to survive otherwise. Hear you've got some kind of genius medic."

Mirage's ventilations hitch again. "Poetic," he murmurs. And how very fitting. A physical pain to match the proverbial agony of watching Thundercracker fly away what feels like vorns and vorns ago.

Thundercracker's optics cycle down and Mirage braces himself as protoform-grey arms reach for him.

No weapons emerge. Instead, Thundercracker picks him up, not gently, but with purpose, Mirage gasping with pain as unhappy sensors shriek with sensation.

"W-what are you doing?" Mirage demands, frame twitching, the smell of scorched circuits stronger now.

Thundercracker kicks on his thrusters, shooting toward the sky with a lurch in Mirage's tanks. Air rushes past his audials. The warning messages on his HUD screeches at him, flashing red and orange. Ten breems seems like an awfully short amount of time.

"What's it look like?" His once-lover retorts.

Mirage's vocalizer crackles, useless. His vision goes gray again, rife with static. His spark staggers, but not due to emotion this time.

No!

_Stasis lock imminent_.

His fingers twitch. His frame jerks. Pain flows outward through the large rift in his chassis. He tastes purged energon.

Everything goes black.

"-age. Mirage!"

He onlines his optics with a harried ex-vent, staring straight into the concerned visor of a medibot.

"Thunder... cracker...?"

The visor dims, the mech pulling back just enough that Mirage can put designation to faceplate. It's First Aid.

"What did he say?" Another mech demands and this voice Mirage knows without having to look.

"Nothing, sir. He's delirious," First Aid replies, shifting his attention back to Mirage's repairs. "Energon loss will do that you. Processors start shutting down, circuits get crossed. You know how that is, Prowl."

Mirage feels numb. First Aid must have him on some kind of sensor block. And his processors certainly feel awhirl. But he remembers.

"When he's more lucid, contact me."

"Yes, sir."

Mirage hears several clipped pedesteps before a door whooshes open and closed. The constrained field in the room is now gone, leaving only Mirage's own and First Aid's, leaking with concern.

"... Aid?"

"You're safe," the medibot reassures with a soft pat to Mirage's uninjured shoulder. "You're back on base."

"How?"

First Aid looks at him, visor as unreadable as Jazz's could be. "I think we both know the answer to that."

Mirage would bet the million creds he doesn't have anymore that Prowl knows the answer too. Which is why he's so eager to question Mirage.

Thundercracker should have offlined him. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd somehow deposited Mirage where he'd get immediate, medical attention.

Why?

Maybe, and a part of him clings to this thin hope, maybe their past is not entirely forgotten. Maybe there's still a chance after all.

* * *

><p>an: Feedback is welcome!


	37. Double Trouble, TFP, Sides and Sunny

**Title: Double Trouble**

**Universe: TFP, season two**

**Characters: Autobot Ensemble, Agent Fowler, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe **

**Rating: T**

**Description: Fowler's worst nightmare is not, in fact, Decepticon in nature. **

* * *

><p>"Speeding. Reckless driving. Online gambling. Racing. Illegal parking. Theft. And failure to stop for a blue light." A hand slams down on top of a desk with an echoing thud. The papers beneath said hand give off a damning crinkle.<p>

"And that, Prime, only covers the last two weeks," Fowler adds with a hiss of fury. "I've seen more paperwork from those two terrors than from every Decepticon encountered in the past three years combined!"

Fowler's shout echoes through main ops.

Optimus sighs. "I do apologize, Agent Fowler. Rest assured that they will be dealt with appropriately." He gestures to the screen, which has been divided, one half displaying the grinning faces of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.

Well, Sideswipe is grinning. Sunstreaker might be better described as sneering.

"I'd be happier if you shipped them off planet," the government agent retorts with no small measure of irritation.

Optimus feels a twitch develop in his left orbital ridge. "Be that as it may, we currently do not have such an option."

"Then you'd better figure out something," Fowler all but snarls, hands planted firmly on his desk. "Because if I catch those two hooligans so much as switching lanes without proper signaling, I'll have them impounded. Fowler, out."

The screen cuts out with a sharp snap. The console then beeps the familiar tones of a received message, no doubt a copy of every single instance of law-breaking the twins have acquired.

"All of that in just two weeks?" Bulkhead comments, his tones stretching somewhere between awe and amusement. "It must be a record."

"And we thought Smokescreen was bad," Arcee adds with a pointed look at said once-new-recruit-now-rather-seasoned.

Optimus pinches his olfactory sensor, a habit he's recently acquired from Jack. "While I am grateful for the reinforcements Prowl sent, I wish he could have provided some mechs who aren't quite so-"

"Bothersome?" Arcee supplies before Optimus can find the proper descriptor.

"Arrogant?" Smokescreen suggests though he's hardly one to talk.

"Exhausting?" Ratchet growls with a glare toward a piece of mangled equipment that, for once, had not been Bulkhead's fault.

Bumblebee shrugs, lifting his hands. "Obnoxious?" he beeps at them.

"Glitched?" Bulkhead adds though the curve of his lipplate is just visible behind the lip of his mouthguard. He's more amused than annoyed.

Optimus' shoulders sink. "I was going to say insubordinate."

Part of him strongly suspects that Prowl had sent the twins to him not as a matter of necessity, but as a matter of vengeance. Mech can hold a grudge like no one's business.

"Always the diplomat," Ratchet says with a snort, rolling his optics.

Optimus ex-vents with a telltale rattle in his vents. "I will speak with them at once." He turns, heading for the corridor leading toward their meager quarters.

"Uh, Prime?" Smokescreen's tentative vocals make Optimus pause.

He turns, raising an optical ridge.

Smokescreen eases, just a pace, behind Bulkhead who shifts in place. "They're not here."

Ratchet whirls on the two warriors, flames burning in his optics. "I confined those two slaggers to base!" he snarls.

Optimus forces himself to resist the urge to sigh again. "Where are they?"

Arcee points a thumb over her shoulder. "If I had to guess, halfway to Vegas by now."

"We need a brig," Ratchet announces.

"I could give chase?" Smokescreen suggests with an eager rev of his engine.

"That won't be necessary." Optimus palms his faceplate. "Ratchet, track their location and bring them back."

Muttering subvocally, Ratchet stomps over to the main console, fingers tapping away to program the ground bridge.

This is, of course, the very moment that the monitor gives off a series of obnoxious tones that startle Ratchet. Fowler's face appears on screen again, bellowing Optimus' title.

He gives in to the urge to sigh. Where's a Decepticon attack when you need one?

* * *

><p>an: Hopefully, more updates to come.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated and muse-inspiring!


	38. Dance with the Devil, TFP, Shockwave

**Title: Dance with the Devil**

**Universe: TF:Prime**

**Characters: Jazz, Shockwave**

**Rating: T (for violence) **

**Description: That Shockwave. He never could take a joke. **

* * *

><p>"What an interesting predicament we find ourselves in," Jazz says, holding his blaster steady despite the trembling of his frame.<p>

A single optic stares back at him, cold and unyielding. "State your purpose, Autobot."

"You mean, it's not obvious?" Jazz slides a step to the right, ignoring the stabs of pain from his left knee and the gurgle of his hydraulics. "I'm disappointed, mech. Don't ya know who I am?"

"Your designation is of no consequence to me."

There isn't so much of a twitch to serve as warning, but Jazz reads the intent in his opponent's unwavering gaze nonetheless. The blast fills the corridor and Jazz throws himself to the side to avoid it, feeling the edge of the heatwave score against his dorsal plating.

He winces, hits the ground on his right shoulder, and rolls back onto his pedes.

"State your purpose, Autobot," Shockwave repeats with a menacing step forward, cannon raised toward Jazz once more. "If your answer proves satisfactory, I might make this painless."

Jazz forces out a laugh, and behind his visor, searches valiantly for an escape route. "Hardly incentive, Shockwave. Most evil villains have better threats than that, ya know."

The sharp whine of that massive cannon charging for another strong blast fills the narrow hallway. "That was no threat, Autobot."

Does nothing break the mech's calm? Primus, it's like trying to get a rise out of Prowl!

Jazz slides another pace backward, ignoring the energon plopping freely from the gash in his arm. He's only got to stall Shockwave just a bit longer. What's taking them so long anyway! Did his timer malfunction? Frag Perceptor if it did!

"An invitation then?" Jazz suggests with a smirk and throws himself into another clumsy dive and roll to avoid Shockwave's second shot. This time, Jazz manages to squeeze off a round of his own, though it misses by several microns and Shockwave doesn't so much as flinch. "Afraid I'll have to decline. Interfactional romances are frowned upon."

The sound of pedesteps echoes from around the curve of the hall. Frag it. Shockwave's reinforcements are answering their master's call.

Jazz, mech, you've gotten yourself into quite the rusted gear here.

Shockwave's optic flashes, cannon giving another fierce whine of charge. "I will give you one final chance, Autobot. State your purpose. Otherwise I shall be forced to acquire it through alternate means."

Jazz's fuel pump stutters. Frag no. He knows all bout Shockwave's little processor-hacking device and he wants nothing of it. No, thank you.

"As fun as that sounds," Jazz says, and in the distance, he hears a low, continuous rumble. Finally! He smirks. "I think that's my cue."

Alert sirens wail into existence, screaming their warnings at a noxious pitch. Lights flash in alternating bands of crimson and ocher. A monotonous voice announces that the infrastructure has been damaged and critical supports are malfunctioning.

Good times.

Emotion suddenly flares into Shockwave's energy field, which batters at Jazz as though it holds tangible razorblades.

"What have you done?" the Decepticon scientist demands, hand whipping through the air in express shock.

"Nothing much." Jazz pulls up a mental schematic of this not-so-secret-anymore laboratory, tracing all routes, anything that might get him the scrap out of here. "A bomb here. A crossed wire there. I say you've got three breems before this compound becomes a hole in the ground. Too bad, so sad."

Fury bleeds from Shockwave's energy field before he can whip it back into shape. "You ignorant pile of scrap!"

The scientist doesn't bother with ceremony anymore. He lifts his arm, aims and fires, heat and pressure filling the narrow corridor.

Jazz scrambles to avoid the powerful blasts, laughing at the sight of Shockwave's infamous reserve vanishing in the wake of screeching alarms and a monotone countdown suggesting evacuation.

Primus, you touch a mech's questionable experiments and suddenly he goes off the deep end.

"I'd apologize but I'm not sorry," Jazz says, using a small stack of supply crates for a temporary cover. "And I'd love to stay and chat but, you know, Autobots to see, Decepticons to scrap, labs to sabotage. Fun times."

He senses heat, energy crackling through the air, and Jazz throws himself to the left, barely avoiding Shockwave's next round. It clips his fully-functional leg, scoring plating with the sharp stench of burnt metal and Jazz scrambles to his pedes, hissing as pain radiates everywhere.

"There is no escape, Autobot."

A subroutine flashes brightly at him. Schematics zoom in and highlight for good measure. Escape route located.

"On the contrary, Shockey, I've just found my out." Jazz whips his blaster toward the Decepticon and aims a series of rounds at Shockwave, more distractions than anything else, and throws his battered frame toward the trash chute he's found.

"By the way," Jazz adds as Shockwave flails to avoid the blasterfire. "My designation's not Autobot. It's Jazz. Have a nice orn!"

With a cheerful wave, Jazz dives into the disposal chute, thanking Primus and anyone else that'll listen that he can fit, just as cannon fire erupts into the corridor behind him.

That Shockwave. He never could take a joke.

* * *

><p>an: For all that Shockwave is one of my favorites, I just don't write him enough... I need to do it more often.

I hope you enjoyed!


	39. Guardian Angel, Bay, OptimusxSideswipe

**Title: Guardian Angel**

**Characters: OptimusxSideswipe**

**Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: mentions of twincest, angst, background character death, sparkmerging**

**Description: Grief shared is always easier to bear. **

* * *

><p>"You're not recharging again."<p>

Optimus cycles his optics, pulling himself from a fugue to acknowledge his subordinate. "Should you not be on patrol?"

"I traded with Jolt," Sideswipe answers and in the following silence, closes the distance between them, rolling up to stand on Optimus' other side.

He says nothing else, at first, and Optimus savors the quiet. He returns his gaze to the starlit night, broken by a scatter of light clouds, but for the most part, dark and speckled. Here, out beyond human civilization, there is little to obscure the view. Optimus prefers it this way.

He wonders, many times, if he stares hard enough, focuses with all his power, he might catch a glimpse of Cybertron. The Cybertron that was, at any rate.

Light traveling as it does often gives the illusion of traveling back in time, reversing the chronometer. And tonight, like many other nights, Optimus would give anything for the power to return to the past. The future has become too difficult to bear.

"It's a pain incomparable to anything else," Sideswipe says, his soft vocals spilling into the companionable quiet. "That hole in your spark... nothing helps."

Optimus dips his helm, offlining his optics. Of course. Sideswipe would understand. He is, most likely, the only Autobot who will ever understand.

"After vorns at odds, it should be easier to bear," Optimus admits, hands pulling into slow, trembling fists at his sides before he unfurls his fingers.

Sideswipe's energy field tentatively reaches out, offering... Optimus isn't sure what to call it. Commiseration? Comfort? Understanding?

"You can't hate half of your spark," Sideswipe retorts with a heavy, bitter tone that Optimus knows all too well. "No matter how deep the betrayal."

Optimus onlines his optics, looking down at his soldier. "You have changed, Sideswipe."

The warrior's lipplates quirk into a wry grin. "Haven't we all?" he asks before the smile melts away into sobriety. "I can help, Prime. I understand."

"Sunstreaker."

Bright blue optics dim, a hand lifting to touch his chassis, gesturing to the spark behind his chestplates. "I felt it when he offlined though I don't know how or why. I probably never will."

Optimus extends his own energy field without fully considering it. "Then allow me to offer comfort as well."

A grated laugh escapes from Sideswipe's vocalizer, but he turns toward Optimus nonetheless. "Same old Prime. Unable to accept it for your own sake."

One hand traces the near-invisible seam of Sideswipe's chestplates, which part a micron, causing a sliver of light to spill into the starlit night between them. "I won't ever feel whole again."

Optimus folds himself down, a necessity considering their height difference, his energy field wrapping around Sideswipe with tangible weight. Offering. Inviting.

Sideswipe accepts, folding into Optimus' embrace, nuzzling his faceplate against Optimus' with a light crackle of static dancing between them.

"You can grieve with me, Optimus," Sideswipe murmurs as Optimus triggers his own chestplates to part, windshields moving up and aside. "I won't ever tell."

Shuttering his optics, Optimus wraps his arms around Sideswipe, holding the warrior to his chassis. He surrenders himself to the eager pull of a broken spark, as fractured and aching as his own. Their frames come together in shared grief that no other Autobot can fathom and there's a small comfort in that knowledge.

And for the first time since the battle in Mission City, since the ruin that was Chicago, Optimus keens for his loss. For the brother he offlined because he had no other choice.

* * *

><p>an: Not a big fan of Bayverse, but one can't deny the potential for aaaaaaangst. And I do so love writing angst. :)


	40. Telling the World, G1, JazzxWheeljack

**Title: Telling the World**

**Characters: JazzxWheeljack, Ratchet, Others**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: Wheeljack has no rhythm. This is a well-established fact. **

* * *

><p>The moment Jazz steps into the rec room, music pouring from his speakers, Wheeljack knows he should have run when he first had the chance. What was he thinking? Hiding in plain sight? When has that ever helped!<p>

He swings his gaze back toward Ratchet, indicators flashing a desperate plea for assistance.

"Oh, no," Ratchet says, shaking with mirth. "You've made your berth. Best lie in it."

"But-"

A hand clamps on Wheeljack's shoulder, spinning him around in his chair, coming optics to, well, bumper with the very mech he should have run from ten seconds ago.

"My love," Jazz says, visor bright with mischief, music pulsing a happy, infectious beat. "Can I have this dance?"

Jazz's arms wave widely, open invitation, his pedes skipping a cheerful rhythm that matches the music. He grins and extends a hand to the mortified engineer, wriggling his fingers expectantly.

Wheeljack's grip on the seat of his chair might better be described as 'death-like.'

Seriously? Wheeljack has no rhythm. This is a well-established fact. He's a disaster on the dance floor, always has been. Just like singing. For the sake of all audials present, Wheeljack has been more or less banned from singing in public.

"Jazz-"

"Just one?" the saboteur interrupts, twitching his fingers again. His vocals shift into a purr few mechs have ever been able to resist, much less Wheeljack with his willpower made of swiss cheese. "Don't break my spark, darling."

"Yeah, Jack! Go for it!" Someone in the crowd of amused onlookers encourages.

Wheeljack makes a note to put something unpleasant in that mech's energon. Just as soon as he identifies the perpetrator.

"C'mon!" Someone else adds.

"You can do it!" And that is definitely Bluestreak, adding on a cheerful giggle.

"Cut a rug!" Had to be Blaster.

"Yeah," Ratchet drawls from behind Wheeljack and he just knows that the medic is smirking from audial to audial. "Break a leg."

Wheeljack sighs, knowing he's been beaten, a sigh of good humor. "You're incorrigible," he says as he takes Jazz's hand.

He yelps as the saboteur yanks him to his pedes and immediately spins him to the pulsing beat, Jazz's inherent grace making up for Wheeljack's clumsiness.

"It's all a part of my charm," Jazz purrs, half of his visor dimming in a wink. "Now let me see ya groove, partner."

* * *

><p>an: I just love writing Jazz. And Wheeljack. And rare pairings. :)


	41. A Prime Problem, TFA, Megs and OP

a/n: First time attempting to write Animated-verse. Wish me luck!**  
><strong>

**Title: A Prime Problem**

**Characters: Megatron, Optimus, Lugnut, Blitzwing**

**Universe: TFA**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: possessive!Megatron, chained Optimus**

**Description: Seduction is always more likely to succeed than force. **

* * *

><p>"You see, little Prime, herein lies my problem."<p>

Megatron does not miss the way the Autobot twitches at the adjective. The way those Autobot-blue optics narrow and Prime makes another aborted attempt to free himself from his bonds.

Megatron's lips curl with amusement. He folds his arms behind his back and paces back and forth in front of his recently acquired captive. Quite a feat of both Blitzwing and Lugnut working together. He shall have to reward them later.

"I have you," Megatron says. "Now what to do with you?"

He pauses, angling his frame just so, the flood light above catching his fusion cannon with an intimidating glint. Just to remind the Autobot of its presence of course.

"I could kill you. Mm, yes. Won't that be fun?" Megatron continues with another intimidating flash of his fusion cannon. "But I suspect you are of more worth to me alive. More entertaining as well."

The Prime glares, hydraulics hissing, frame visibly straining at his bonds. But the stasis cuffs work in Megatron's favor, keeping the Autobot quiet and immobile. The glare is, at worst, as frightening as a turbofox kit.

"Glorious Megatron," Lugnut rumbles, rubbing his massive paws together. "What are you going to do with the Autobot?"

Megatron twitches. Is that not the very question he'd pondered aloud? You just can't find good help these days.

Still. He will have to do something. No doubt the Prime's pathetic team will come looking for their missing leader. Autobots have a tendency to attempt to rescue their own. Well, the halfway decent ones anyway. The less said of the Magnus and those in the upper echelon the better.

"We'll keep him," Megatron announces, smirking as the Prime makes a noise of protest, a growl in his engine that rumbles in the air. "For now."

Blitzwing's Random gives off a maniacal cackle. "For educational use only. Batteries not included!"

Megatron rolls his optics. "Lugnut! Escort our new prisoner to more fitting accommodations."

He watches as Lugnut drags the Autobot up by his arms, pulling at the cuffs, dragging Prime's arms at an unnatural angle. He can hear the servo-motors in Prime's shoulders whine their distress, but Prime bears the pain with a furious dignity. An admirable dignity actually.

How intriguing. Perhaps there is more bite to this little Prime than Megatron first suspected. He would be a great addition to the Decepticon cause. While young compared to Megatron, he has useful battle skills and the fact he is attractive is a point in the little Prime's favor.

Once upon a time, Megatron had been quite charismatic. It isn't a stretch to think he still carries those skills.

Forcing the Prime to join the Decepticons is not appealing. Convincing the Prime, however, is quite intriguing indeed. Seduction, while not Megatron's forte, is far more likely to succeed than force, which Megatron disdains anyway.

His engine gives a rev of interest.

Yes. This idea will do nicely.

* * *

><p>an: I've seen all of Animated but still haven't quite grasped the characterizations just yet. Comments are welcome. :)


	42. Die Young, G1, JazzxBlue

**Title: Die Young**

**Characters: JazzxBluestreak, others**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: The best-worst idea that's ever wandered across Bluestreak's thoughts. **

* * *

><p>Jazz is very overcharged. His visor is bright, too bright, and there's a distinct wobble to his movements that speaks of overenergized circuits and misfiring synapses. Bluestreak thinks he must be overcharged too because that smile on Jazz's lips is the sexiest thing he's ever seen this side of Cybertron.<p>

"Hey, Blue," Jazz purrs, fingers sliding up Bluestreak's arm and tapdancing their way across his upper arm. "I ever tell ya I got a thing for shoulder cannons?" he asks, preempting his statement by dragging those deft fingers over Bluestreak's shoulder mount.

He shivers, doorwings rattling, leaning into the touch, leaning a bit more when the high grade sloshes inside of him. Jazz laughs and reaches out to stabilize him with wandering hands and a bright visor and this is quite probably the best-worst idea that's ever wandered across Bluestreak's thoughts.

"That's... um... news to me, Jazz," Bluestreak stutters as a hot and heavy energy field washes over his plating, making his circuits tingle. Worse that the music is pounding with bass, rattling his frame, making his spark throb. "But lots of Autobots have shoulder cannons. Wheeljack, does. And Perceptor. And Sideswipe and – urk!"

Jazz's fingers circle the cannon mount, pressing closer, the revving of his engine adding to the vibrations rocking Bluestreak's frame. "Mebbe I should be more specific," he says, hips swaying to the beat and capturing Blusetreak's attention. "I like _your _shoulder cannon."

Bluestreak feels his faceplates heat. Best-worst idea. Completely.

"Jazz, everyone's watching," he says, optics darting around, noticing that there were more Autobots avidly looking than there were discreetly looking away.

"Let 'em watch, they can't help themselves," Jazz replies, static leaping from his fingers to Bluestreak's armor, dancing to the sensors beneath and alighting him with pleasure. "They're jealous."

As if to prove Jazz's point, Bluestreak's personal comm instantly pings with several comments, most of the encouragement kind and in Smokescreen's case, with rather lewd suggestions for what he can do with the sexy saboteur hanging on him.

Well, then. If that's the way they're going to be...

Bluestreak lifts a hand, placing it on Jazz's waist, fingers rapping a rhythm that matches the beat of the music, sure to vibrate in the best kinds of ways through Jazz's frame. "If you don't mind, I don't mind," Bluestreak says and doesn't bother to fight back his laugh at the startled look on Jazz's faceplate, or the surprised flash in the mech's visor. "But if we're going to put on a show, it better be a good one. I'm sure Sideswipe wants to get his credit's worth."

Because honestly, the red twin probably put Jazz up to this. He's been nagging and nagging Bluestreak to stop with the innocent act and break everyone's processor with the truth. Mostly because he wants to see someone other than Prowl glitch for once.

Jazz laughs, his energy field washing over Bluestreak with elements of surprise and intrigue and a hefty dose of audacity. "Baby Blue, you've grown."

"Been grown, Jazz. Just been waiting for someone to notice," Bluestreak replies and his fingers dance a happy path along Jazz's armor, finding a transformation seam and wriggling between the plating, feeling the burr-snap of charge as it rushes through Jazz's circuits.

"Oh, I'm noticin'," Jazz purrs, hip swaying his way closer, a languid roll of his frame pushing them together with a vibrating rasp of metal on metal. "And I'm likin' what I see. Care to take this somewhere private?"

Bluestreak leans forward, nuzzling a sensor horn with the side of his helm as he whispers into Jazz's vocalizer, "I thought you wanted to put on a show."

Jazz bursts into a fresh round of laughter. "If that's what ya want, then that's what they'll get." He buries a hand in Bluestreak's circuitry, setting of a burst of sizzling pleasure. "C'mon, Blue. Let's see what ya got."

"With pleasure," Bluestreak says. And proceeds to do just that.

* * *

><p>an: Jazz/Bluestreak... definitely one of my TF OTPs. (I have many of those, lol)

More to come!


	43. Expedient, TFA, BlurrxShockwave

a/n: Because I love to turn the ususual convention on it's head. :)

**Title: Expedient**

**Characters: BlurrxShockwave**

**Universe: TFA**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: bondage, unhinged!Blurr, implied slavery **

**Description: Blurr's been given an opportunity; Shockwave is not pleased. **

* * *

><p>"Retribution, they're calling it. Repayment. Reparations. Whatever term makes you squirm apparently."<p>

Blurr tapped his chin with two digits, looking down at the mech bound in chains. Shockwave was on his knees, wrists cuffed, transformation cog removed, weapons destroyed. Completely subdued in other words. Just about harmless.

Shockwave said nothing. That was okay. Blurr didn't need the Decepticon to talk. He wanted Shockwave to listen. And seethe.

"I can tell by that gleam in your optic that you're surprised," Blurr continued and began a slow, steady circling of his new... gift? Pet? Servant? What the frag was he supposed to do with a Decepticon? "You thought I was crushed. Offline. Nothing more than spare parts. Fuel for the furnace."

He paused just behind Shockwave, memories coming to him unbidden. The fear, sharp and acrid, like burned circuits. The walls closing in, closer and closer, where at first he thought he was imagining things but no, the space was getting smaller and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He couldn't warn anyone, couldn't warn Ultra Magnus, there was just-

-pain and agony and darkness. Then the pain was gone because his receptors weren't there. His processor was a crumpled wreck. His spark was a dim flicker. He guttered so many times. Or did he? Sometimes, Blurr couldn't really remember. His memory core had been crumpled, too. All that remained were the impressions on his spark.

The jittery sensation returned and Blurr started to pace once again, anxious flickers of charge dancing through his circuits. He shook his helm, doggedly continuing.

That therapist would probably tell him that taking the mech who had nearly killed him was far from a good idea. Frag. What did the therapist know anyway?

Blurr circled back around to Shockwave's front, that single optic meeting his gaze with eerie purpose.

"Honestly, I don't know what the Magnus is thinking." If the Magnus even _thinks_, everyone knew Sentinel was just a windbag wrapped in an aluminum shell. "He wouldn't dare do this to Megatron. Oh, no. He was sent straight to spark prison. But you?" A bitter, cruel smirk curved Blurr's lipplate. "No one cares about you."

He cocked out a hip, arms crossed, staring down at his... slave.

A deep ventilation hummed from the Decepticon's frame. "If you wish to demoralize me, you will not succeed."

Blurr laughed. How could he not? And if it was a little pitched, a little not-quite-there, well that was his secret to keep.

"I'm just the messenger. And apparently the master. _Your _master as a matter of fact, Shockwave." He leaned down, energy field a repressive wall against the bound Decepticon. "Or is it Longarm? Which one do you prefer? I'd hate to offend."

This felt good. Like he was in control again. Like the walls weren't closing in and all he had to do was put pedes to the road and he could be off again.

Shockwave's optic flashed. "Do you think it is a kindness?"

"I think it is what you deserve." Blurr circled around the Decepticon, wondering if the constant movement unnerved Shockwave. Wondered if the infiltrator was bothered by his captivity, by his helplessness.

"They should have executed you," Blurr continued. "Like some of the others." Lugnut, for one. And a couple of the Starscream clones.

Shockwave tilted his helm, defiant. "Wonder why they did not," he said, vocals low and warning. "And then wonder what side you have chosen."

Blurr barked a laugh, coming to a halt in front of Shockwave. He crouched, one digit curling under Shockwave's chin, pushing it further up. "Funny you should mention that. You did such a good job pretending to be one of us. I wonder how many times your loyalty wavered."

A tangible vibration rattled Shockwave's armor, indignation at Blurr's insinuation echoing in his energy field. Hmm. Struck a circuit, did he?

"Oh, don't worry, Shockwave." Blurr flicked his finger up and then drew back, leaving the Decepticon to glare at him. "I'll take good care of you. Just as you were so kind to me."

* * *

><p>an: I hope you enjoyed! I might try and write more of this in the future.


	44. Exterior Design, G1, Tracks

**Title: Exterior Design **

**Characters: Tracks**

**Universe: G1, pre-series**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: Tracks is given an offer he can't afford to refuse. **

* * *

><p><em>"What we need, gentlemechs, is a bot with a sense of style and aesthetics. One who understands both form and function while still invoking an appreciation of beauty. This cannot be a simple rebuild. It must be perfect. He is our Prime, the one who will end this war. We need, gentlemechs, the best."<em>

A smile curved the lipplates of one council member, who tapped his chin with elegantly tapered digits. "I think I know just the bot."

The request was waiting in his inbox when Tracks returned from a supply run. Arching an orbital ridge, Tracks queued up the message for replay as he bustled about his storage, putting his carefully acquired necessities in their proper place. It was getting harder and harder to find what he needed as of late. This blasted war... frag the Decepticons to the Pit and back!

He ex-vented and shook his helm. Peace, he told himself. Getting outrageously angry would do nothing for either his own state or for Cybertron itself. It was pointless.

He only half-listened as the message droned in the background, some mech blathering on about duty and honor and a great opportunity. Tracks revved his engine. Like he hadn't heard that before.

He rolled his optics, moving into the tiny confines of his energon storage, selecting from his rapidly diminishing stock of high quality cubes.

The mech continued to chatter. Tracks heard something about designing a rebuild, prompting another roll of his optics. After that last public dismissal? Frag, no. He was done, absolutely done with designing frames.

Tracks cracked open a cube and dropped down into a chair, which creaked ominously beneath him. He scowled. Once upon a time, he'd had only the finest to his designation. Such was a thing of the past, before the scandal, and the public dismissal of his services by that pompous, overbearing, wouldn't know a good paintjob if it reached out and slapped him across the-

Wait. What?

Tracks tilted his helm, dialing up his audials.

"-opportunity of a lifetime," the mech was droning, sounding bored even to himself. "Your designation will be recorded in the annals."

Jerking back to his pedes, Tracks stormed into the other room and slapped the console, prompting it to rewind a few kliks back in the message.

Yes. He'd heard it right. They were offering more creds than Tracks could ever dream of. More than enough to get him out of this slum, back into the public optic, and quite possibly, back into the upper echelon where he belonged.

But was it worth it?

He leaned a hip against the counter, letting the recording play on.

War was rapidly overtaking Cybertron so much so that Tracks had considered more than once upgrading his exquisite design to include weapons and better armor. Did his reputation really matter?

The recording ended with a final plea and a callback number. There was a designation attached to the request. A designation Tracks knew all too well. Trust Trion to be the one to suggest his services to the other council members.

But to design the new Prime? He was potentially setting himself up for either the worst kind of failure, or the best kind of praise. He did not like the knowledge that there was no certainty for either.

Tracks ex-vented softly, glancing around the pitiful shelter he called home. It was under-stocked, under-designed, and barely adequate to his needs.

He would never get another opportunity like the one Alpha Trion offered. Not with the way Cybertron was devolving. And honestly, what did he have left to lose?

Pushing himself off the counter, Tracks reached for his tiny comm console. It was time to make a call.

* * *

><p>an: Because Tracks is awesome and I don't write him enough.

Feedback is welcome!


	45. Captive My Captive, G1, Prowl and TC

**Title: Captive, My Captive**

**Characters: Thundercracker, Prowl, Skywarp**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implied slavery, war's end, character death**

**Description: Optimus Prime is dead. To the victor go the spoils. **

* * *

><p>In captivity, Praxians were nearly as feral as Seekers. Prowl hadn't stopped glaring since the moment he onlined. His optics were like blue lasers, as cold and hard as the ice in the Arctic Circle.<p>

It was more emotion than Thundercracker had ever seen the Autobot tactician produce and there was something thrilling in that knowledge.

Was it the chains keeping his wrists shackled to the wall? Was it the bolts punched through his sensory panels, pinning them also? Was it the way his knees were awkwardly bent beneath him, legs splayed as though offering his interface?

Or maybe it was the knowledge of the Autobots' defeat that had broken Prowl. Optimus Prime was dead. His forces had tried to rally, but this was where it got them. Bound. Captive. Defeated. Broken.

In Decepticon chains.

Thundercracker didn't know what Megatron had planned for the survivors. Torture, perhaps. Humiliation. Death.

Prowl had probably already guessed. Had calculated the likely outcomes in that magic processor of his. So maybe that was the reason for his behavior.

A low rumble filled the cell, gears churning and grinding against one another. The Autobot's engine growled, like that of a dying organic, the last throes of a trapped beast.

It was, in retrospect, rather unsettling.

"Thundercracker! Stop staring at the Autobot. You're freaking me out."

He cycled his optics, backing away a step. He was, to quote Skywarp, freaking himself out honestly. "I'm not staring."

"Were, too." Skywarp punched him on the shoulder, only to lean upon it as he stared past Thundercracker and into the cell. "He's not even one of the prettier ones. You have terrible taste. You know that gold menace is just a few cells down."

Thundercracker didn't miss the way Prowl flinched, or how his lipplates curled back over his denta. Yeah, Prowl had his suspicions. And now Thundercracker did, too.

"Don't be ridiculous." Thundercracker shrugged off his fellow Seeker, turning away with a rustle of his wingtips. "That's disgusting."

"Suit yourself." Skywarp threw an arm back over his shoulders, striding in step with him. "Primus, you're boring."

Thundercracker ignored him, pausing to glance once more into Prowl's cell. Those icy optics glared back at him, flat and merciless.

A shiver clawed down Thundercracker's backstrut.

Not for all the energon in the world.

* * *

><p>an: Bit by bit, more drabbles will trickle in, I promise.

Also, I don't post all of them here since this site has been taking down anything that hints of smut, so there are three or four drabbles that I've posted to my AO3 account and to my personal website. I've the same penname on A03 and you can find the link to my website in my profile, if you want to check out the more smuttier fics. (Gotta SideswipexSunstreaker, TrailbreakerxSunstreaker, and a few others, too).

Hope you enjoyed!


	46. Good Time to Run, TFA, ShockwaveBee

**Title: Good Time to Run**

**Characters: Shockwave, Bumblebee**

**Universe: TFA, post-season three**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: canon-typical violence **

**Description: Bumblebee was bored. But this isn't what he had in mind to entertain him. **

* * *

><p>Becoming a member of the Elite Guard wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Saving Earth and Cybertron from Decepticon incursion wasn't enough. Oh, no. It was barely a boost to get him started at the lowest, entry level.<p>

Essentially, guard duty.

Primus was he bored.

Maintaining space bridges was more entertaining than guarding prisoners. Even the high security ones like Lugnut and Blitzwing barely gave him a thrill. The Elite Guard kept them so doped on processor sedatives that the 'Cons just sat there and drooled, so to speak.

Optimus and Bulkhead, at least, were being kept busy in various arenas of Cybertron. Optimus was vying for Magnus and Bulkhead was working with the space bridges. Ratchet had his servos full of patients. Even Sari had something to occupy herself.

Bumblebee felt a little bit like he'd been kicked aside. So much for being a war hero.

Primus, he was bored.

Until the riot and the infiltration and the prisoner escape. Then Bumblebee found himself outnumbered, outclassed, and staring into Shockwave's lone optic.

Only Megatron would have been more terrifying.

Now would be a good time to run, Bumblebee thought, ice sloughing through his lines and a tremble wobbling his actuators.

He stood his ground, like an idiot. He was a member of the Elite Guard, frag it! He would not be-

Whoa!

Shockwave was fast, faster than Bumblebee remembered. He hit the wall with a frame-jarring splat, chassis crumpled inward from the blow. His optical feed fritzed, gyros unstablized and he slid toward the floor. He tried to right himself, get his pedes underneath him, but his limbs flopped about like a landed fish.

Digits curled around his throat, pulling him up, scraping his backplate against the wall behind him in a jarring shriek of metal on metal. Bumblebee twisted; Shockwave's grip tightened.

Shockwave leaned closer, optic inches from Bumblebee's faceplate, until all Bumblebee could see was that eerie, Decepticon red.

"Hmm," Shockwave said, like a scientist studying a new specimen. "You'll do."

Bumblebee powered up his stingers, not liking that look in Shockwave's optic one bit. His spark clenched in fear.

He'd heard about what happened to Blurr.

He really should have run when he had the chance.

* * *

><p>an: I need more practice writing TFA. Shockwave is so much fun to write. He's just so evil. :)


	47. More Than Words, Bay, OptSides

**Title: More Than Words**

**Characters: OptimusxSideswipe**

**Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: sparksmut, past twincest, fairly purple prose **

**Description: Between the both of them, they perpetuated an illusion of peace. **

* * *

><p>They never spoke. Words would shatter the illusion. Action meant more as did the desperate need leaking from their energy fields.<p>

It was hard enough to find privacy. Humans were everywhere, they had no personal space, and the humans always noticed if they snuck off alone. So Sideswipe cherished what little time they could find to sneak away.

Here, in the shadows of a destroyed human city, a miasma of grief and reluctant victory clung to them like a coating of ash. Optimus was already waiting and Sideswipe went into his embrace with charge crackling over his armor, and his spark aching within his chassis.

Optimus held out a servo, his battlemask sliding aside, energy field emitting tangled bursts of need and sorrow and relief. Sideswipe's own was a haunting mix of regret and stale sparkache that never grew easier to bear. Not even with time and Cybertronian's functioned for a long time.

Optimus was larger, taller, bulkier. Sideswipe climbed atop him, straddling his lap, feeling dwarfed by the Prime and all the gladder for it. Broad and burly was different, not at all the same as his own, and that, too, was part of the illusion.

Sideswipe drew air through his vents, olfactory sensors taking in the scents of hot metal, munitions, Earth road grit and synthetic wax, a unique combination of odors specific to Prime and another difference so desperately important. Even better with Optimus' servos resting on his hips, holding him in place with their weight alone, pulling him closer with a resonating slide of metal on metal.

Surges of charge crawled between them, licking across Sideswipe's circuits and visibly dancing over Prime's plating. Pleasure lit across his sensory net in a blaze. Sideswipe groaned, optics offlining, his own servos reaching out, hooking digits in the many protrusions of Optimus' chassis. The human-designed kibble was strangely complementary on Prime's protoform.

Optimus' digits flexed on his pelvic array, pushing into the gaps between armor plating, touching the flexible cables and lines beneath. Sideswipe arched closer to the Prime, wordlessly demanding more, his own ex-vents caressing the heated armor beneath him.

The closeness of another mech was wonderful. The knowing touches, the skilled caresses, the push and pull of charge between them was soothing in all the best kinds of ways. Sideswipe felt overload building within him on a steady, heated wave.

But it wasn't enough. It was never enough and no one knew that better than Optimus, because his cravings were the same.

This time, Optimus' chestplate was the first to crack, mechanisms sliding apart and up, until the cool heat of his spark washed over Sideswipe's anterior.

He onlined his optics, the first sensation of awe passing over and through him as always. Optimus' spark was a roil of blue-white energies, made even stronger by the presence of the matrix he now carried. A tendril of energy licked out, seeking, and Sideswipe's own chestplates parted in response.

He rose up, supported by Optimus' servos to account for the height difference, spark energies lashing out, eager to connect again. He heard Optimus groan, felt the tightening of those massive servos on his frame, which creaked warningly. And then their sparks collided, energies threading together.

Awareness suspended, heat and light and pleasure overtaking it all. Sideswipe's vocalizer glitched; his spark throbbed. It lasted forever and no time at all. There was a sense of completion, for one achingly familiar moment, because Optimus was Prime and all Cybertronians and only himself as well. He tasted of the Ancients and of Prime and of a tiny bit of the Allspark.

Overload took Sideswipe in the space of a sparkbeat. The designation his spark called wasn't Optimus', but then, Optimus didn't shout for Sideswipe either. This, too, wasn't unexpected, though the relief of war's end was tempered by the grief that followed release.

Their chestplates closed on automatic and Sideswipe sagged, resting his helm on Optimus' chassis, feeling the thrum of the powerful spark beneath. His systems hummed as he clung to that evanescent feeling of unity.

He didn't need to say thank you. Optimus already understood that, too.

* * *

><p>an: OptSides are my favorite Bayverse angst pairing.

More updates to come eventually!


	48. Unconventional, G1, TrailbreakerxSunny

**Title: Unconventional**

**Characters: TrailbreakerxSunstreaker**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: sticky **

**Description: It was an attraction that defied explanation.**

* * *

><p>It was an attraction that defied explanation.<p>

Sunstreaker couldn't put it into words himself. Trailbreaker was the complete opposite of everything Sunstreaker found appealing. He was kind and considerate where Sunstreaker was borderline psychopathic. He was logical where Sunstreaker could be and more often was reckless and Trailbreaker preferred to defend where Sunstreaker would rather charge helm first with an offensive strike.

Trailbreaker was large and slow and bulky. He maintained his armor to the recommended minimum. He was quiet and unassuming and often blended into the background. He liked Earth and the humans and never made much of a fuss about anything.

In short, he was not a partner Sunstreaker would have ever selected out of a line up.

But the feel of those large servos on his frame, the regard in Trailbreaker's warm visor as his gaze flicked over Sunstreaker from top to bottom, it was addicting. It didn't make any sense, but addictions rarely did.

Sunstreaker offlined his optics, giving himself over to sensation because it was just that easy. His engine whined, but Trailbreaker's more powerful motor rumbled, sending vibrations cascading through Sunstreaker.

He moaned, his servos grasping for a hold against black, pitted armor, strong and tough. Durable. The steady push of Trailbreaker's spike roused pleasure in growing pulses through his valve.

Sunstreaker's existence was a thing of violence. On the battlefield and off it, from the moment he was sparked, and for the entirety of his functioning. Violence was what Sunstreaker knew. It was where he excelled. It was what he wanted.

It was what Trailbreaker never gave him.

His touches were always infinitely gentle, as though Sunstreaker were a precious item. Delicate. Too easily shattered. And maybe he was right.

Sunstreaker often thought he should feel insulted, indignant even. He didn't. It was... nice to be treasured. Nice to feel like he was worth more than his body count. And Trailbreaker made him feel that way.

"Hey."

A servo cupped Sunstreaker's faceplate, pulling him from his musings, the vocals rumbling through him and resonating in his spark chamber. "You still with me?"

Sunstreaker unshuttered his optics, looking up into Trailbreaker's visor. He turned toward his partner's palm, ex-venting warmly upon it. He could smell the wax Trailbreaker used, cheap but effective, and the faint evidence of gun oil.

"Always," Sunstreaker said before he could censor himself. Trailbreaker seemed to do that to him, make him speak without thinking, make him react.

He cut a gaze at the larger mech. "But if you ever tell anyone I was that sappy, I'll rip off your arm."

Trailbreaker chuckled, no trace of fear in his energy field. "I know better than to make that kind of mistake." His other hand tapped a rhythm on Sunstreaker's hip.

"Good." Sunstreaker clenched down on Trailbreaker's spike, providing a shudder form his larger partner. "Frag me. Please."

A thumb swept across his cheek plating. "Whatever you say," Trailbreaker murmured, and a slow, deep thrust made Sunstreaker moan.

No. It didn't make any sense at all. But sometimes, Sunstreaker supposed, it didn't have to.

* * *

><p>an: Do I love writing the Twins? Why, yes. Yes, I do. Sometimes, it doesn't matter who they are paired with. :)

Btw, if you're following me on my livejournal, check it out this month. I've got Prompt-a-Palooza going on, which means leave me all the prompts you want and I'll do my best to fill them. No accounts needed. Feel free to be anonymous.


	49. Farewells

**Title: Farewells**

**Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM**

**Characters: MiragexThundercracker (past)**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: Off-screen character death, angst**

**Description: They could not betray their factions, so instead, they abandoned each other. Sequel to the flash fics "Fences" and "Happenstance"  
><strong>

* * *

><p>He turns the tiny tag over and over in his fingers, tracing the glyphs stamped on the metal, the polished edges of it, worn by constant touch. It is warm from being close to his spark chamber, and fairly hums from absorbing so much latent energy.<p>

Somehow, Mirage did not think victory would be so hollow. He imagined a long celebration to go with his much anticipated return to Cybertron. He imagined peace and joy and recovery and rebuilding.

The Decepticons are defeated, dead or exiled to the far reaches of space. Earth is safe. Cybertron belongs to the Autobot's once again. Or at least, what's left of it.

Mirage can find no cause for celebration.

Cybertron is a planet dying, dead, tumbling as it is across the cosmos without an anchor. It is a tattered ruin, nearly destroyed by the journey through the space bridge.

Ironhide is dead and with him Wheeljack, the twins, Jolt, Arcee... so many of the Autobots who have made this victory possible. They fought and bled and don't get to live long enough to enjoy the peace that follows. How is that fair?

Megatron is dead and Mirage is glad for it. He and the traitor Sentinel Prime. Cybertron will be better without both of them, rebuilt by Cybertronian hands and not human slave labor. Starscream, Shockwave, Soundwave... all of the Decepticon command, destroyed and smelted and drowned.

But, Thundercracker too, is gone and Mirage can't seem to reconcile that truth.

It's war. Such things happen. They were on opposite sides of an impassable wall. Mirage could no more betray the Autobots then Thundercracker could abandon the Decepticons. So instead, they had abandoned each other.

Mirage has never had the luxury of regretting his decisions. He has been far more focused on surviving until the end of the war. As, bit by bit, Cybertron turned into a wasteland and the population was reduced.

Mirage had watched everything he ever knew and loved turn into ash and rust. He had fired upon his former lover more times than he could count. There is nothing to be celebrated in this victory. Nothing.

He only thinks once to try and find Thundercracker, give him a proper burial where they haven't attempted to do so in eons. But amidst the wreckage, twisted frames, and angry humans, Mirage is resigned to failing in this as well.

And with the Allspark destroyed, only Primus knows where Thundercracker's spark has gone. Lost to the stars perhaps.

Just like Cybertron and the rest of her people.

It's an ache that has not eased, no matter how many times Mirage has fired his weapons, or survived another encounter. It is the memories that burn the fastest, the brightest. A time when Thundercracker had once saved his life, and Mirage had returned the favor.

A time when Mirage's greatest hope was that peace would be won, apologies given, and the opportunity to start over would arise.

Well, it had been a futile hope from the start, he supposes.

His optics fall, once more, to the tiny tag in his hand. The etchings are almost worn away, not that he hasn't already memorized their glyphs.

A gift from a lover, his most precious possession. It is meaningless now, as so much of Mirage's actions have become.

He ventilates a low sigh and dips his helm, offlining his optics.

It is pointless to cling to the past. He cannot restore what is unfixable. There are some wounds that cannot be healed, some fractures that cannot be mended.

Mirage's thumb rubs over the worn glyphs one last time. He lifts the tiny tag, pressing a parting kiss to the metal, and then he flicks it from the tip of his thumb.

His optics online to watch the metal glint as it flies into the sky, only to plummet down as quickly, landing amongst the detritus beneath him, buried with the rest of the fallen.

Mirage turns away from the flattened city, so reminiscent of what Cybertron had become. Prime will be looking for him soon and there is much work to be done.

He leaves the past behind him, though the ache in his spark is not so painfully discarded. It will stay with him, for better or worse, and that, Mirage thinks, is only part and parcel of what he deserves.

* * *

><p>an: Just a little crack pairing that grew wings in my mind. I rather liked the way this trilogy closed out.

More ficlets to come as soon as I write them. Hope you enjoyed!


	50. Groove With Me, TFP, JazzxBlue

**Title: Groove With Me**

**Characters: JazzxBluestreak**

**Universe: Transformers: Prime, pre-series**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: In which Jazz is irresistible and Bluestreak takes the bait. **

* * *

><p>"You're not dancin'?" Jazz asks as he plunks himself down next to Bluestreak, high grade sloshing out over his fingers in attractive rivulets of blue.<p>

Bluestreak ducks his helm, hiding behind his high grade. "No. I don't really... uh... do that."

He knows, even before the last syllable leaves his vocalizer, that it's not an answer Jazz is going to accept. Especially when the saboteur lifts his hand and laps up the spilled energon in quick, sweeping slides of his glossa. Bluestreak's fans kick on.

"You tell me no but your optics carry a different story," Jazz retorts and leans closer, smelling of high gloss and hot metal and things that make Bluestreak's engine rev. "C'mon, little Blue. Why doncha dance with me?"

The temptation is very real and very, very powerful. Bluestreak feels his sensory panels twitch at the teasing embrace of Jazz's energy field.

"I can't," he forces out, and gulps down his high grade in two strong pulls, hoping the burn might distract him from the heat of his own interest.

It doesn't.

"Sure ya can," Jazz purrs, visor flashing a seductive hue. "I won't mind one bit."

Bluestreak's faceplates heat. "No, I mean... I can't," he clarifies and squirms in his chair, sending a helpless glance to the tiny room at large but no one's coming to his aid. "I don't know how."

Jazz grins, a husky laugh echoing in his chassis. "Then now's a good time to learn. It isn't hard." He leaps up, bouncing on his pedes, offering a hand to Bluestreak, wriggling his fingers in invitation.

Bluestreak shifts in place, optics darting left and right but returning, time and again, to those tempting fingers. "But-"

"Ya gonna leave me hangin'?" Jazz asks, his lipplates curling into a most delectable pout that probably helps him get his way all the time and frag, but Bluestreak's pretty susceptible to it.

He cycles a ventilation and rises to his pedes. "Okay," Bluestreak says slowly. "But if I crush your pedes..."

"I won't hold it against ya."

Fingers clasp around his own and Bluestreak stifles a yelp as Jazz, smaller but no less strong, proceeds to drag him to the dance floor.

"Blaster, my mech," Jazz shouts, loud enough to be heard over the music somehow, "give me a good beat to get my aft groovin'."

Blaster, on the other side of the room, grins and salutes Jazz. "Whatever the boss-mech wants."

The music shifts then from a decadent beat to something a bit more pep and sultry, though how that's possible, Bluestreak doesn't even know.

Jazz drags him to dead center and then stops, whirling to face Bluestreak. "Now," he says with the biggest grin Bluestreak has seen. "Listen. And feel." He does a full-frame roll that's quite possibly the hottest thing Bluestreak has ever laid optics on.

He may, also, be drooling.

"You're way more flexible than I am," Bluestreak argues, feeling rather awkward and stiff as he stands there and Jazz starts to move. "I can't possibly do what you do. Or look half as good doing it. Or even a fourth as good. Or—"

"Shh," Jazz says, though pleasure ripples in his energy field. "You'd be surprised what you can do. Listen. And feel," he repeats.

Bluestreak sighs but listens. And feels. It's hard not to. The music is pulsing in the room, he can feel it through his pedes and against his sensory panels. It's loud enough that it's vibrating through his frame and through his spark chamber.

Jazz moves closer, one pede tapping to the beat, laying his hand on Bluestreak's chestplate and Bluestreak doesn't mind one bit. One finger taps out the rhythm but Bluestreak really notices the heat of his hand the most.

"C'mon," Jazz purrs. "Move with me."

"I can't," Bluestreak cries, a bit at a loss. He tries and he's stiff and it's not good at all.

Other mechs are watching, too. Of course, they are. He and Jazz are in the middle of the room, the middle of the floor, and when Jazz dances, mechs and femmes watch. Because Jazz likes the attention, he looks good doing it, and more than one interface system kicks into life. Bluestreak should know. His own has been pinging him for the past several kliks.

"Hey," Jazz says, other hand rising to cup Bluestreak's faceplate. "Don't worry about them. Optics on me. Look at me. All right?"

Easier said than done, but Bluestreak obeys.

"Good," Jazz purrs and both of his hands drop to Bluestreak's hips, a light grasp that prickles sensation across Bluestreak's sensory net. He shivers.

"Now," Jazz continues, glossa wetting his lips in a quick flick that Bluestreak watches maybe a bit too closely. "Move."

And Bluestreak does. Easy enough with Jazz's hands on his hips, pulling and pushing and guiding him to the beat. He still feels awkward, but if he concentrates more on Jazz, it's easier to ignore that. He's no dancer, he'll never be a dancer, but if trying gets Jazz's hands on him, he's willing to keep going.

"Good." Jazz says, frame twisting and sliding, his hands following as he moves to the beat, easing himself behind Bluestreak, pressing their frames tightly together.

Bluestreak can feel him moving, his own frame quick to mimic the action, spurred on by the purr of Jazz's engine and crackle of static between them. His sensor net lights up with charge, eager arousal spilling into his field before Bluestreak can rein it in.

"I'm flattered," Jazz purrs, his hands still on Bluestreak's hips, guiding him into every flex and sway. "S'that an offer?" He ex-vents hot against the back of Bluestreak's sensory panel.

A rather undignified squeak escapes Bluestreak. "If you want it to be...?" He's actually not sure if he's asking or telling.

Jazz laughs and it's a wholly amused sound, lacking all traces of derision. His fingers do a little dip, sliding into the barely-there gap in Bluestreak's hip structure, and stroke a thick bundle of sensitive cables.

"I do," Jazz murmurs, right against the mediate ridge where his sensory panels are braced.

That coil of heat in Bluestreak's innards combusts into a full-out firestorm. He shudders from helm to pede, completely losing all trace of rhythm. His hands shoot down, clamping on Jazz's, though he's not sure whether it's to remove them or keep them in place.

"Not here," Bluestreak groans. His interface systems have other ideas like, say, dropping to his knees and popping his panels – all of them.

"Course not." Jazz's fingers give a little squeeze that sends shivers up Bluestreak's backstrut. "Place and time, Little Blue. And I'm all yours."

Bluestreak doesn't hesitate. "How about my berth and now? I'm sure Hound's going to stay with Ironhide and-" Fingers tap-tap against a side panel and Bluestreak's stutter into silence.

"Sounds perfect," Jazz says.

Bluestreak all but whimpers his agreement.

* * *

><p>an: Yes, I am still writing these. But Real Life has forced my fanfic writing to slow to a crawl. Updates will reflect that. I apologize in advance.


	51. Word from the Wise, Bay, Sunny and Sides

**Title: Word from the Wise**

**Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe **

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-films**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: Sideswipe has yet to learn one very important lesson: Sunstreaker is always right. **

* * *

><p>"What did I tell you?" Sunstreaker's demand came out sharp and irritated, kind of like his emotions right now.<p>

Sideswipe was a woebegone clump of red armor in the chair across from him, one that didn't bother to lift his helm from the tabletop. "Never stick your spike in crazy."

"Never," Sunstreaker emphasized, and leaned forward, pinning his brother with a fierce glare. "That's right. And why don't we stick our spikes in crazy?"

"It multiplies," came the recited answer, albeit muffled by his faceplant into the table.

"And?"

"Never lets go."

"And?" Sunstreaker prompted, frustration only growing.

Sideswipe clunked his helm against the table. "It's not my fault!" he wailed, energy field releasing a sharp burst of indignation and a fair dose of shame. "He didn't look crazy."

Sunstreaker snorted. "They never do."

"And he had the sexiest aft I have ever seen. No lie."

Sighing, Sunstreaker sat back in his chair, rolling his optics.

"Big, purple optics," Sideswipe continued without any prompting this time, his vocals taking on a dreamy sigh. "Rich black and red paint. And all the best high grade."

"...You glitch!" Sunstreaker snapped out his leg, pede colliding with Sideswipe's shin in a kick hard enough to dent metal. "You just wanted the high grade!" He kicked Sideswipe again for good measure.

"Ow! Frag it, Sunny!" Sideswipe scooted his chair over, an attempt to get out of reach. "Haven't I been dented enough?"

Sunstreaker scowled. "Not in my opinion."

Sideswipe lifted his helm. "I can feel the love," he drawled.

"You're going to feel my pede up your aft if you don't shut the frag up!"

"Ooo. Sounds kinky."

Sunstreaker kicked him again, because he could and Sideswipe should have known it was coming anyway, the selfish glitch. Sideswipe's chair made an obnoxious noise against the floor as he scooted several more feet away. Juuuuust out of reach.

"You are a sparkless shell without any sympathy," Sideswipe grumbled. "I could use a hug but no, my darling brother would rather abuse me."

Sunstreaker's glare could have peeled paint. "This is all your fault."

Sideswipe sighed, helm impacting the table again with a solid thunk. "It always is."

"Because you never listen to me."

"In one audial and out the other," Sideswipe agreed.

Sunstreaker felt a lot like banging his helm against the wall. "How long do we have to hide here?"

"However long it takes Dead End to forget I exist."

Of course it would.

Sunstreaker sagged in his chair, resisting the urge to leap across the table and throttle the other half of his spark. "I hate you."

"And yet you're stuck with me."

"Thanks for the reminder."

"What else are brothers for?"

Sunstreaker decided it was better not to answer that. He might say something he would regret.

"Shut up and recharge," he snapped.

Sideswipe laughed.

Sunstreaker sighed.

The next few vorns were going to suck slag.

* * *

><p>an: All credit for the prompt goes to my best friend and beta Lady Azar de Tameran who loves to shout "never stick your dick in crazy" at the screen when we watch criminal shows on the ID network. It's as amusing as it is aggravating. lol


	52. Speechless, G1, JazzBlue

**Title: Speechless**

**Characters: Jazz/Bluestreak**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: There's a Bluestreak on his berth and Jazz had no idea how he got there. **

* * *

><p>When Jazz dragged himself to his quarters, put in his code, disabled his special security, and slunked into the room, he did not expect anything but dark silence to greet him.<p>

Instead, there was a Bluestreak on his berth and Jazz honestly had no idea how the gunner got there. Though he was far from complaining.

It was like a 'facing fantasy come to life.

"Bluestreak?" he spluttered, startled enough that he stumbled back, aft hitting the door. "What are you- how did you- I mean-"

Words. He needed them and he didn't have them, much like an explanation.

Bluestreak grinned, doorwings performing an energetic flutter that no other Praxian on base would be caught using. It was too adorable. "Well, Sideswipe told me that Smokescreen told him that Tracks said that Blaster knew a certain someone had an interest in me."

He rose from the berth, all big blue optics and coy grin and inviting field that tingled enticingly against Jazz's own. "Apparently, that mech is you, though what I can't figure out is why I had to find out from the gossip chain. Could have said something, you know."

Jazz's mouth worked but no sounds emerged. At least, no intelligent ones. He was still stuck on the fact that Bluestreak was here.

"You... I... Prowl..." He made a helpless gesture that explained everything and nothing all at once.

Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge. "How do you think I got in here? Luck?" He slid closer to Jazz, each step filled with predatory intent. "Who else could hack your lock? I guess you could say he gave you his blessing. Or me. Take your pick." He shrugged.

Jazz's processor flat-lined. Prowl had helped Bluestreak sneak into Jazz's quarters for the sake of a midnight rendezvous? The very same mech who had lectured Jazz just last week for his inability to take the Autobot Code as anything but a guideline?

Bluestreak chuckled, his humor infectious. "Did I break you?"

Jazz's vents stuttered to life, vocals spitting static.

Doorwings lifted, purposefully enticing, as the overhead lights caught the sheen of plating that had been polished to perfection. "Or do you want me to go?"

"No!"

Jazz lurched forward and his faceplate burned, his denial coming out with too much force.

"I mean," Jazz said, trying to find his charm from wherever he'd suddenly misplaced it. "You're more'n welcome to stay."

Bluestreak grinned. "For a minute there, I thought you'd glitched. Then I would have to call Ratchet and he would have thrown something and blamed it on Prowl and none of us would get what we want."

"Well, maybe ya just have that effect on me," Jazz purred and closed the distance between them, grabbing Bluestreak's hand and pulling it toward his lips. "So how about that offer?"

The rolling desire in Bluestreak's field was all the answer Jazz needed.

He definitely owed Prowl big time.

And, apparently, Sideswipe, Smokescreen, Tracks and Blaster, too.

* * *

><p>an: Jazz/Blue is rapidly becoming an OTP. Just so you know.

More fics to come!


	53. Optics on Me, G1, SunnyProwl

**Title: Optics On Me**

**Characters: SunstreakerxProwl**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None**

**Description: When it comes to Sunstreaker, Prowl likes what he sees, and Sunstreaker knows it **

* * *

><p><em>Take a break<em>, Jazz said. _Stretch out your cables. Get your energon pumping. _

_Go to the training room. _

Prowl should have known by the thinly veiled mischief that Jazz was plotting. Then again, Jazz was always plotting.

Usually, last thing last shift, the training room was deserted. Very few Autobots stirred before the dawn unless it was required of them, and even then grudgingly. There were a few notable exceptions, but said bots weren't the sort to be found in the training room in the first place.

This morning was different and Prowl couldn't take his optics off the sight.

He circled around the ring, whisper-quiet with all the stealth he had learned and in turn, taught to Jazz. And Prowl watched, drinking in the view.

Gleaming armor was polished to perfection, catching the overhead lights with each shift of plating. Elegant movements declared martial forms with fluid skill, shifting from one stance into the next with not a wasted effort. The soft hiss of hydraulics and the scrape of pedes against matting filled the air. And the blue glow of optics, deep in concentration, shone from a faceplate devoid of the usual scowl.

Sunstreaker was beautiful.

Of course, the fragged glitch _knew_ that but it was no less true. Whomever had designed his frame had been an artist.

He had to know Prowl was watching. Sunstreaker had a keen situational awareness, nearly on par with Red Alert. But he gave no sign that he knew Prowl was there, which meant he could watch to his spark's content. For all his vanity, Sunstreaker was surprisingly private about certain things. His training routines were one of these things.

On and off the battlefield, Sunstreaker was a vicious warrior with a short temper and a sharper glossa. He gave the impression of a mech who could not be tamed.

There were only a select few who knew any different. Prowl considered himself lucky to be one of these few.

Sunstreaker twisted and spun across the ring, arms whipping through the air, vents audibly cycling. His expression was one of deep focus and it was the closest to calm Prowl had ever seen him except for the one rare, unguarded moment of wistful thinking.

It was a moment never to be repeated, occurring when Sunstreaker had come across something in Teletraan-1's archives. Prowl never did find out what it was. He was waiting for Sunstreaker to tell him.

Sunstreaker on the battlefield was a terrifyingly gorgeous sight to behold, but Prowl rarely got to pay him that much undivided attention. There were other tasks to occupy his processor.

But here, he could watch. Here, Sunstreaker could be focused and the sight of it sent Prowl's own fans to spinning. There was something about seeing a notoriously violent mech tiptoeing toward peace that sent arousal singing through his circuits. Try as he might, Prowl could not keep his vents quiet.

He clasped his arms behind his back to hide their trembling urge to stroke Sunstreaker's armor, entertaining heated thoughts of taking advantage of their semi-privacy. Only Teletraan was watching, and perhaps Red Alert, but neither would mind.

Sunstreaker finished the last routine with a flourish, his field bursting out, filling the room with a smug triumph. His plating rippled, rising and falling like a bird ruffling its feathers, before he turned to face Prowl. He tried to act surprised but like his twin, could never contain his ego.

"Why, Prowl. I didn't see you there." He leaned on the ring's enclosure, all angles and lazy grace, his weight causing the thin metal chains to creak alarmingly. "Taking a break?"

Prowl performed a systems check, not that it helped. The heat was still there, flushing desire through his lines. "By some definition of the terms, yes."

Sunstreaker smirked. "Can I help you?" He flicked a hand over his right shoulder, brushing away an imaginary piece of dust that was in truth a calculated move to draw attention to his immaculate frame. "You look a little charged."

Prowl inclined his helm. "You know very well that I am. So get down here and do something about it."

"I have a better idea," Sunstreaker retorted, arching an orbital ridge at him. "Why don't you come up here and _make me_?" The request came out as a purr.

It also sounded like a challenge.

Prowl debated for 3.27 seconds. Jazz had told him to have some fun. This would count, wouldn't it?

"If you insist."

He climbed into the ring, vaulting over the barrier with ease. Sunstreaker backed up a few strides to give him room.

The warrior's smirk widened. "Don't pretend you're not aching for me right now," Sunstreaker said, vocals full of an arrogance that was just shy of obnoxious.

Prowl's field flexed. "I would never resort to lying."

Sunstreaker shifted into a defensive stance, one hand lifting in a come-hither gesture. "And Sideswipe says you have no charm. I do believe that was a compliment."

Prowl slipped into his own stance, though his was a bit more offensive. He would wipe that smirk off Sunstreaker's face and then have the warrior screaming his name.

Sunstreaker always did get more vocal after a work-out.

* * *

><p>an: Slowly but surely I will continue to update this fic. I don't know when I'm going to run out of ideas but it won't be anytime soon. Promise.


	54. Indivisible Part One, OptSides, Bay

**Title: Indivisible, Part One **

**Characters: Optimus, Sideswipe**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-films  
><strong>

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: canon-typical violence, background character death  
><strong>

**Description: Love does not preclude hate, nor does it presume loyalty. **

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, Sideswipe had been a twin. He had shared his spark and functioning with another mech. He was never alone.<p>

He loved his twin inasmuch as he understood love. Though sometimes he hated his other half, too.

Love, Sideswipe discovered, did not preclude hate.

Once upon a time, Optimus Prime had a brother, a twin in everything but station. A mech with half his spark with whom he shared rulership and all else that mattered.

Love, Optimus had also learned, did not presume loyalty.

There they were, two abandoned mechs on the edge of a rusty battlefield, staring across hordes of fallen frames, littered over an energon-soaked expanse. Ash and spent ions clung in a dense cloud to the sparse atmosphere.

Sideswipe had energon on taloned hands, dripping down his chestplate, coating the streaks of gold glaringly obvious on the once-glittering silver of his paint.

Optimus' hands were clean, at least of visible stains. His optics tracked the retreating backplate of a warmonger. His frame remembered the fierce beating he had absorbed until a retreat was called or victory assumed.

No one, in truth, had won here.

Again, Optimus realized. Time and again he would face the consequences of his own weakness. He would suffer for the spark he could not bear to take.

Cybertron would suffer. Her people would suffer.

Because until now Optimus had not understood the cost of love. He hadn't understood how it could cut so deep, pollute from the inside out, and disturb the natural state.

Sideswipe did.

Optimus turned his gaze on the silver warrior, energon dripping the last spare drops from his hands, limp at his sides.

Sideswipe had the courage to do what he must. He had looked into the optics of his other half and hadn't faltered. He had not let his weakness rule him.

Optimus must learn from his example. He would not be able to win this war if he could not. Cybertron must be protected, and her people, too.

The unbreakable bonds must be shattered, no matter the cost.

The scientist within him was of no use here and must be cast aside. Optimus Prime as he knew himself would be abandoned as well. He must become the warrior Cybertron needed. And he must prepare himself for the next confrontation.

The outcome must not be allowed to repeat itself.

"Never again," Optimus said, his soft proclamation too loud in the after-battle silence.

Sideswipe looked up at him as Optimus lay a hand on his shoulder, over a deep gash in thick armor, metal scorched and jagged. The final, desperate blow of a mech whose spark was guttering.

"I will not falter again," Optimus clarified. "I will bring him down. I will end this."

It was a promise. To himself and to Cybertron and to the Autobots who gathered under his banner.

Sideswipe's helm dipped in understanding, field barely lit at the edges with approval.

"It won't be easy," he murmured, one hand rising to touch the score across his chestplate, flecks of gold interspersed.

Optimus cycled a ventilation, his optics shifting back to the battlefield. "Few things are."


	55. Indivisible Part Two, OptSides, Bay

**Title: Indivisible – Part Two**

**Characters: OptimusxSideswipe**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-films**

**Rating: M**

**Warnings: tactile 'facing  
><strong>

**Description: In the wake of fire and agony and grief, each became solace for the other. **

* * *

><p>In the wake of fire and agony and spark-searing grief, the broken warrior became a surprising source of solace.<p>

Optimus would seek him out, bitter and exhausted, and Sideswipe would welcome him with open arms and ports, never asking why because he already understood.

Consolation was found in the crackling surges of overload, the comforting warmth of another frame held close to his, the exploration of curious fingers smaller than his own, the searing heat of pleasure that blanked out everything else.

The taste of Sideswipe's spark was as achingly familiar as it was foreign. Optimus drew strength from it and a certain measure of relief. All was not lost. _He _was not lost. At least, not yet.

That he could offer Sideswipe the same measure of comfort eased the ache in his spark. Because Sideswipe also suffered. What Optimus had considered an act of strength, Sideswipe berated himself for what he called a weakness.

Self-preservation, he claimed. Hurting his twin before the pain could consume him.

Guilt tore ragged holes in what was left of Sideswipe's spark. He didn't recharge so much as shut down all but emergency systems for a short time. He was still a fierce warrior on the battlefield, but in the downtime between one clash and the next, he faltered.

They were both of them broken beyond what a medic could fix. Though Primus knew that Ratchet tried.

"We're going to lose Tyger Pax," Optimus said one grim cycle, slumped as he looked out over Iacon, the last bastion against the Decepticon advance. "And Megatron will claim the Allspark."

His hands clenched on the railing, defeat curdling inside of him like a festering case of cosmic rust. The necessary change in himself had been effected, but it was still not enough. The Decepticons, outnumbering the Autobots nearly two to one, had rampaged across Cybertron and the Autobots were barely able to slow their advance.

The shadows beside him shifted, armor catching a glint of street lighting. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

Optimus' plating rose and fell, clinging tight to his substructure, reflecting the inner turmoil. "I fear what he will do with such unbridled energy. The Allspark, like Cybertron, is a neutral entity."

"And hiding it is of no use."

His helm dipped. "He would tear what remains of Cybertron apart to find it, caring little for who or what might stand in his way."

Hands landed on his hips, sliding around slowly, palms flatting on Optimus' abdominal plating. A frame pressed tight against his backplate, thrumming with a familiar pulse, energy field reaching and coiling with Optimus' own.

"Destroying it isn't an option either," Sideswipe murmured, and it wasn't a question.

Optimus was silent. Neither he nor his cadre of tacticians had an answer. The fact remained, with the Allspark in hand, Megatron would win the war.

Fingers teased over his thoracic ports, a second hand rising to trace the seam of his chestplate. The leisurely exploration and the comfortably familiar touches sought to ease his tension. Optimus wanted to be enveloped in that comfort but his processor would not rest, cycling over and over the problem at large.

"There was an unspoken rule in the Pit," Sideswipe said, and his words were halting, as though pulled from somewhere deeply buried. "If you had something valuable you couldn't protect and couldn't destroy, then you sent it away."

The embrace tightened with a creak of metal on metal, and a long ventilation escaped the warrior's vents. His field rippled, ringed on the edges with age-old grief.

"It was the only way to be sure," Sideswipe added, rebooting his vocalizer to clear the creeping static. "No matter how much it hurt."

Optimus lowered his helm. "That would be the end of Cybertron."

"We're already at the end. With or without the Allspark."

Silence fell, growing between them.

Optimus knew that Sideswipe was right. If he could not defend it, could not destroy it, and could not hide it, what other option did he have but to cast it away?

He turned away from Iacon, shifting in the embrace until he faced Sideswipe, one hand lifting to cup the warrior's helm. "If I asked, would you tell me what it was you sent away?"

Sideswipe's gaze dropped, optics cycling dim. It was an answer without words.

"Do you regret it?"

"Every orn that passes." Sideswipe fingers traced the line of Optimus' backstrut and he lifted his helm. "But I would make the same choice over and over again."

To any other mech, such a statement lacked sense. But Optimus understood it.

"It's late," he said, thumb sweeping over Sideswipe's cheek arch. "Come to berth."

Sideswipe needed no further encouragement. He'd been trying to urge Optimus to recharge and rest all along.

They tumbled into the plush berth, Optimus' only nod to his station. Sideswipe's ports were already open, welcoming, spitting charge and Optimus' cables surged free, clicking home with a snap-crackle of pressing need.

Sideswipe moaned, hands grasping, hooking in thick plates of armor no Prime before Optimus had ever carried. Sideswipe became a frame of motion, rising and falling to the pulse of their connection, need and lust surging in strong bursts through the link.

Pleasure, Optimus reckoned, was simple, easy. He could give and Sideswipe would accept and complications were abandoned in the sweet ebb and flow of charge.

Desire could not be feigned and it rose in Sideswipe's field, blanketing Optimus in unfettered lust. Optimus swallowed the first pleasured cry with a kiss, but his mouth wandered further down, lips tracing Sideswipe's chestplate, following the fine corrugated seams. His glossa nudged the narrowest line down the center, the armor plate humming with warmth beneath his mouth.

Sideswipe shivered from helm to pede, plating rippling, arching up toward Optimus' mouth. Acceptance and permission swirled into one as his chestplate cracked a fraction, pale sparklight seeping through, spilling onto Optimus' face. The heat of it tingled the tactile sensors on his glossa, but his olfactory sensors worked just fine, and he could taste the sheer, undiluted energy, light and heavy all at once, hopelessly addictive.

Optimus cradled the smaller mech with his hands, fingers dipping into broader seams at joints. Their cables grew hot, the scent of heated metal filling the room. Optimus' own chestplates rattled but he didn't dare release them. No matter how much his spark yearned for the touch of another, he couldn't risk it.

Another full-frame shudder struck Sideswipe, whose helm pushed back against the berth, baring the thick cables shielding his intake. He sucked air through his vents, optics dim and unfocused. "Optimus, please."

Need was a molten stream from Sideswipe to Optimus and back again. His circuits hummed with charge and static lit the room, especially inspiring as it reflected off silver armor. Sideswipe's spark flared, fingers gripping tight.

Optimus mouthed the edges of Sideswipe's chestplate, glossa dipping into the narrow split, touching the intangible. He tasted energy and grief and the distinct, sharpness of ozone.

Sideswipe's backstrut arched, frame crackling with electricity, his overload pouring across the link. Pleasure bombarded Optimus, cresting at the first palpable flare of a damaged spark.

Optimus pressed his helm to Sideswipe's chestplate, optics offlining as he shuddered through his own overload. He could feel the warrior thrumming against the platelets of his helm, the heat of Sideswipe's frame a satisfying balm to his inner turmoil.

And still the connection remained hot and hungry between them, one overload never enough to chase away the dark. Sideswipe's eager hands proved his willingness to continue, his systems audibly cycling back up toward blinding ecstasy.

It was several joors yet before Optimus was expected anywhere. He planned to take full advantage of it.

He dragged his mouth up toward Sideswipe's, capturing the warrior's lips for a fierce kiss, moaning as his panels clicked open and Sideswipe's cables sank into his ports immediately thereafter, completing the loop.

This, Optimus decided, was a far more worthwhile venture than recharge.


	56. Anywhere But Here, JazzBlue, Bay

**Title: Anywhere But Here**

**Characters: Jazz/Bluestreak, Prowl**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-films**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implied character death, angst **

**Description: Jazz hasn't changed his mind yet, and he isn't going to. **

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you want to do this?"<p>

Jazz isn't surprised by the question. Prowl has been asking him for the past several decaorn, while all of Iacon has been in a flurry of frantic activity and last minute preparations. And yet, Jazz still hasn't changed his mind, nor is he going to.

"This could take vorns," Prowl continues, field giving the edge of a desperate mech. "You may never return."

Jazz cycles a slow ventilation, lowering his helm. At his side, his fingers draw into his fist, save for the hand that remains, palm pressed against cool metal.

"Maybe I don't want to," Jazz admits.

A gust of cold despair weighs down Prowl's field. "You do not mean that."

He offlines his visor. "Yeah, Prowl, I do," Jazz answers with more honesty than he has allowed himself as of late.

His fingers trace the lines and curls of a designation over and over again, etched as they are into the massive memorial in Iacon's city-center. There's more room on the bottom and on the other side for more designations, more fallen mechs. Even so, Jazz is sure this memorial is never going to be large enough.

They're still killing each other, Autobot and Decepticon alike.

He drops his hand.

"Isn't anythin' left here on Cybertron," Jazz continues, taking a step back, several steps in fact, but no matter how much he backpedals, he's still in the shadow of the monument. "Nothing but emptiness and death. The only bit of hope is somewhere out there."

He makes a vague gesture, skyward and spaceward.

Prowl moves closer to him, sensory panels twitching up and out. "I cannot decide who is more foolish," he says with a sharpness that dictates his loss of composure, one very few are allowed to witness. "You or Sideswipe."

A bitter laugh escapes Jazz before he can stop himself. "Yeah, too bad for Siders he can't go. I know he's got as much reason as I do." He shakes his helm. "At least, he has something else to keep him alive."

There's a startled burst of Prowl's energy field. He senses, more than sees, Prowl reach for him, but Jazz twists his frame, sidesteps the motion.

"Jazz.."

"No, Prowl. Stop. Just... stop."

He backs another pace, closer to the monument, further from comfort. The silence between them is heavy and Jazz hates it, but carries it on his shoulders because he needs that burden, too.

"I know what you're gonna say and I've heard it before and I don't want to hear it again," Jazz finally says, words spilling out of him faster than he can process, than he can give permission, and it occurs to him that he doesn't sound like himself. That he sounds like-

He whirls toward Prowl, visor glinting with the emotion he doesn't dare set free in his field, and it aches the way Prowl looks at him, sympathy and pity both.

"Blue's gone," Jazz says on the raggedy edge of a ventilation. "Nothing's gonna bring him back. And since I gotta keep livin', I might as well make it worth somethin'."

Prowl's optics cycle wide. His lips part, sensory panels jerking. "Jazz, you weren't-"

"No." He cuts off the tactician, knowing exactly what Prowl is going to suggest. "No, I'm not that stupid."

_Not like Sideswipe_, his traitorous processor whispers at him. Not as brave as Ratchet had been, or that cowardly either.

"But lately," Jazz admits, "I'm wishin' I had been."

"It's not your fault."

Jazz's plating lifts and clamps, drawing tight around his frame in response to his self-defense sub-routines. "Everyone keeps sayin' that but ya know what? No one else was there. No one saw what I saw."

It's an argument they've had too many times before and he reads the concession in Prowl's field before he sees it in the downward tilt of Prowl's helm.

A rolling sigh rises up and around Jazz and he rubs his palm over his helm, feeling the weight of vorns and vorns of killing wrapped around him. "Prime's gonna need me. He's gonna need someone who can think on his pedes and react. We don't know who or what's out there. He needs my flexibility."

Prowl steps closer, the distance between them measured in micrometers. "And that it's all but a suicide mission doesn't have anything to do with it."

Anger flares, sharp and bright and Primus, it's so much easier to bear than grief.

"Frag you, Prowl," Jazz says, visor flashing, field snapping out with tangible intent. He pushes past the tactician, shoulder clipping Prowl's, barely missing the edge of a sensory panel. "You and your self-righteous speeches."

He stomps, each pede an echoing staccato around the silent memorial. He stomps to the very edge of the shadow, feeling the burn of Prowl's gaze between his shoulders, at the base of his helm.

"Jazz."

He stops, though he knows he shouldn't.

Jazz grinds his denta, looks down and from the edge of his optical range, he can see Prowl just behind him. The tactician hasn't moved, but his sensory panels have drifted downward, as low as they can hang. His optics have dimmed, though his faceplate is carefully free of expression.

"Be careful," Prowl says, and there's a tightness in his vocals that can't be concealed. "I've already lost one brother. I can't lose another."

Guilt crashes with despair and clings to the last, thin tendrils of hope.

"I'm not makin' any promises," Jazz bites out.

Prowl says nothing else, at last bereft of questions and requests and pleas.

Jazz leaves him there, in the towering shadow of thousands of fallen Autobots. Once upon a time, he might have felt guilt, but what emotions remain in his spark are too dark and twisted for something so polite.

All that's left inside is a hollow pit, where his spark keeps his frame moving, but little else. His joy went with Bluestreak, and Jazz knows he'll never be the same again.

Taking his mission with Prime to search for the Allspark, it probably is suicide. And maybe Prowl's right. Maybe that is what Jazz wants.

It's his decision to make and no one, not even Prowl, is going to convince him otherwise.

* * *

><p>an: Sorry for the delay in posting these, guys. RL grabbed hold and wouldn't let go. I'll be gradually updating what I've got in reserves over the next couple of weeks.

I hope you enjoyed! Reviews are welcome and appreciated. :)


	57. Blast from the Past, Vortex and Sides

**Title: Blast from the Past**

**Characters: Sideswipe, Vortex, past Vortex/Twins**

**Universe: G1, pre-Earth**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implied violence and torture, language **

**Description: Vortex walked into his favorite interrogation room, and a ghost from his past smirked right at him.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Interrogator.<p>

That was Vortex's job. He enjoyed it. He was good at it. He got paid – well, he used to get paid. Now he just did it because he could. It was a valuable skill.

Autobot. Decepticon. Neutral. It didn't matter. It was fun to pick them apart, strip them down, get to their core.

Interrogating was an art.

It was more than causing fear or pain or both. It was more than threats or intimidation or sweet, sweet trickery. It was not just asking the right questions, but getting the right answers. Getting the real truth, and not the false truth.

Prisoners lied. Prisoners wanted to live. Prisoners had things they wanted to protect, or personal honor, or personal limits. Prisoners had reasons to lie their afts off, if only to stop the pain.

So there was an art to interrogation. No two prisoners were alike. Pain made some defiant. Humiliation was shaken off by others. Some held their secrets with less regard than their pride. Some would give anything, would _die_ for their cause. Vortex had to look at his victim, figure out how they ticked, before he could even start to tear them apart.

There was no step by step guide to train an interrogator. The good ones, _really _good ones, were sparked for it.

And Vortex?

He was the best.

Sometimes, Onslaught brought him toys because he was bored and had nothing better to do. Those mechs and femmes were easily breakable and Vortex played with them just to wile away the hours. They didn't have any information he needed, no secrets that would help win the war, but they were still fun to strip down.

Vortex liked secrets, no matter their origin. Secret lovers, secret sins, he hoarded them like precious metals, more valuable than chits. Vortex liked to catalog all the secrets he'd learned, poke at them later, laugh to himself.

Sometimes, though, Vortex was given a _real_ task. They plunked him down in front of some Autobot prisoner, or Neutral with the unfortunate luck to have wandered into Decepticon territory. Occasionally, he even got a Decepticon suspected of being an Autobot in disguise. Those were the most fun.

One day, Vortex walked into his favorite interrogating room, a whistle in his vents, and cheer in his field, carefully dampened so that his prisoner would sense it. The Decepticons had caught themselves an Autobot scouting party and were eager to see just what kind of intelligence they could gain from their prisoners before granting them a long and entertaining execution.

Vortex had been given one of the soldiers, a frontliner and warrior by all rights. They were the most fun to break because they didn't fear pain, didn't care about pride, and laughed off any kind of blackmail.

He strode into the room, anticipation a hot and heavy curl in his lines, only to come to a complete halt as his optics fell on his victim.

Oh, Primus' rusted undergarments. Not this Autobot.

"Hey, Tex," Sideswipe said with a cheery, smug grin, his helm tilted back. "Fancy running into you here."

He lounged in his chair, draped in chains six ways from Moonbase, and didn't seem to care one whit about his circumstances.

The door slammed shut behind Vortex. The ghost from his past continued to smirk.

"You're supposed to be dead," he said flatly.

Sideswipe chuckled, a twinkle in his optics. "The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

"Why aren't you dead?" Vortex gritted out and no, that wasn't a whine at all.

"Sorry to disappoint." Sideswipe lifted his arms, unsurprisingly no longer chained to the floor though wrists yet shackled one to the other, and brought them behind his head. He was the very picture of redolence. "But I just couldn't pass on without sayin' goodbye to my favorite rotary."

He had the audacity to wink.

Somewhere in the distance, Vortex heard an explosion. The base shuddered. Alarm klaxons began to sound, the commander screaming for all mechs to report to battle on all open comms.

Frag.

"Oh," Sideswipe said, frame shaking with silent laughter. "That's probably Sunstreaker. He missed you, too."

Frag them all to the Pit. Vortex snarled.

They always stuck him with the fragging crazies.

* * *

><p>an: I have so much fun writing Vortex, I really ought to do it more often.


	58. Cuddles, G1, Sides and Sunny

**Title: Cuddles**

**Characters: SunstreakerxSideswipe, Ensemble cameo **

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: twincest cuddles, language **

**Description: Sunstreaker has a bad day and Sideswipe is missing. Go figure. **

* * *

><p>Sunstreaker wakes up from recharge alone, the berth cold and Sideswipe a distant speck in his spark. And he knows, just knows, that today is going to be slag.<p>

And of course, he's right.

First thing, he's out of his special wax and has to borrow from Tracks who demands an arm, a leg, and a drawing in exchange. Fragger.

On his way to get his morning cube, he runs into Slingshot mouthing off about air superiority in the rec room again. Obligated to prove him wrong, Sunstreaker shows the stupid jet just how stupid jets can be.

Ironhide isn't impressed but the brig is full of brawling minibots from the night before and no one wants or is able to cover Sunstreaker's patrol.

He gets two weeks of rust-scrubbing from the Ark's hull instead. Sunstreaker would have preferred the brig.

His patrol partner is Bluestreak, of course. Normally, Sunstreaker doesn't mind Bluestreak's chatter, it's something to fill the silence when he's in a less than charitable mood, but today, every word out of the gunner's mouth rubs his audials raw. He's two steps close to throttling Bluestreak when the sky opens up.

The rain, as the humans would say, is just icing on the cake.

Not just rain either, but a torrential downpour accompanied by hail and lashing winds.

By the end of his shift, Sunstreaker returns to the Ark a mud-encrusted mess with branches stuck in unfortunate places, including his seams, and an even fouler disposition. There hadn't even been a 'Con or two to work his frustration out on.

Sideswipe, the little fragger, is still nowhere to be found.

Running on empty, Sunstreaker is forced to get a cube before he can wash up. The rec room is, once again, crowded to the brim because it would be too simple for him to get a cube unimpeded. Some dumbaft opens his mouth and makes a comment about the state of Sunstreaker's paintjob.

Jazz, peacemaker that he is, slides in before Sunstreaker can do so much as snarl, offering a smile and a cube and pulsing calm into his energy field.

Snatching the cube from Jazz's hand, Sunstreaker whirls around and makes a beeline for the exit. He's dirty and tired and annoyed and his fragging brother has decided to pull a disappearing act and – blech!

Sunstreaker glares down at his cube. Fossil fuels again? It's the worst of them all. Nothing can hide the gritty aftertaste or the oily way it slithers down his intake.

He forces it down because, again, fuel levels treacherously low thanks to the rain and mud and stomps off to the washracks. Only he's still out of wax and someone has swiped his mail-order cleanser and Sunstreaker is left with the option to use nothing or the stock soap. Hardly a choice at all.

He returns to his shared quarters with Sideswipe, finish streaked, gritty energon on his glossa, and woe be unto his twin if he ever shows up. Sunstreaker punches their code into the panel with undisguised ferocity but the door opens before he manages the final number.

"There you are!" Sideswipe says with undisguised glee, a bright smile on his face. "I thought you'd be back by now."

Sunstreaker twitches. "Do you have any idea what kind of day I've had?" he demands, stomping into their quarters. "Where have you been?"

"You were out of wax." Sideswipe follows him in, cheerful energy field fizzling flat. "Since I had the day off, I thought I'd get you some more. What happened?"

Sunstreaker throws himself on the berth. "Nothing," he grunts and turns his helm to look at his twin. "You really bought me some wax?"

"I said it, didn't I?" Sideswipe gives him a strange look. "What the frag's the matter with you?"

Indignation leaves Sunstreaker in a huff. He reaches out a hand. "Come here."

"Why? So you can pound me? You got that look in your optics."

"Sideswipe, frag it, come here!"

"Okay. Sheesh." Sideswipe climbs onto the berth, stretching out beside him, and the rest of the tension in Sunstreaker's frame bleeds away.

"You are in a mood, aren't you?" Sideswipe grumbles, but he doesn't move away, just presses closer until they are plating to plating, his backplate molded against Sunstreaker's chestplate, the steady vibrations of his engine reverberating through Sunstreaker's frame.

Sunstreaker curves an arm over Sideswipe, keeping him pinned. "Thank you."

His twin's energy field stirs with relief and exasperation and affection all rolled into one. "You are one crazy glitch," he mutters, but folds his hand over Sunstreaker's anyway. "Love you, too, bro."

* * *

><p>an: Ah, I so rarely write fluff. And it's rather difficult to make Sunstreaker fluffy. This is the best I could do. lol


	59. Adventure, G1, RatchetProwl

**Title: Adventure**

**Characters: RatchetxProwl**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: mild violence and language**

**Description: This is clearly Jazz and Wheeljack's fault, Ratchet thinks. **

* * *

><p>"Get out of your office, Jazz said."<p>

"Have some adventure, Wheeljack said."

"I'm going to kill him," Ratchet and Prowl snarled in perfect unison, one that was accompanied by two matching bursts of aggravation and fury in their energy fields.

"We could always look on the bright side," Prowl said in one of his usual and inappropriate bursts of humor. "It's not Decepticons."

Ratchet gave his lover a sour look. In fact, he probably could have melted slag from the force of his glare. "You call this an improvement?" he demanded, flinging a hand in sharp gesture. Well, he tried to anyway.

It was rather difficult for him to move with all of the glue sticking to his frame, covering him from helm to pede except for a few lucky limbs.

"How does something like this even happen?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," Ratchet half-snarled, tossing his partner another fierce glare. "You were the one who decided to throw yourself in front of it."

Prowl's doorwings flicked. Well, one of them did. The other was too immobilized by the flood of glue.

"There were innocent lives at stake," Prowl argued.

"There are always lives at stake!" Ratchet huffed a ventilation. He was growing hot, over and out, most of his vents blocked by the sticky tide until he was forced to take huge, gulping draughts through his mouth. "So you thought the best option was to make your last stand? Did you even calculate it?"

"Of course I did," Prowl retorted, but there was an edge to his tone, a glint to his chevron, a muted downturn of his doorwings that hinted he was, quite possibly, fibbing. Ratchet knew his partner far too well for fall for it, even if everyone else thought Prowl would never break any rules.

Ratchet rolled his optics. "Any word from the Ark?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Prowl?"

"If by word you mean 'uproarious laughter that has yet to stop' then yes, there's been word," Prowl said. "Someone forgot to mention that Wheeljack had the comms today."

And if Wheeljack was giggling his aft off, it was probably because he'd invited Jazz in to chortle over their predicament. The fraggers.

Which meant they'd get around to sending help.

Eventually.

Until then, Ratchet would have to stand here, literally glued in place, while the humans emerged from hiding to gawk.

Ratchet worked his jaw because really, nothing else was moving. This glue dried ridiculously fast, almost as though Wheeljack had designed the formula. "For the record," he said. "This is your fault."

Prowl sighed. "It usually is."

* * *

><p>an: Another one of those rare pairings that crops up now and again. :)

I hope you enjoyed. More fics to come as I space out my uploading.


	60. Reunion, Bay, Bee and Springer

**Title: Reunion**

**Characters: SpringerxBumblebee**

**Universe: Bayverse**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: None **

**Description****: Two lovers find one another again. **

* * *

><p>He's barely off the ramp before a yellow-plated mech launches himself through the air, happiness bleeding through their fledgling bond.<p>

Springer's arms open to catch the smaller bot, instantly enfolding Bumblebee in his embrace. Bee squirms in his arms, one hand reaching up and locking around the back of Springer's head. He drags their forehelms together with a resounding click of metal on metal, his optics blazing blue and bright.

"_You made it,_" Bee transmits over the telepathic link now formed between them.

Joy makes Springer's spark flip on its axis, and he easily ignores the catcalls of his fellow Wreckers, Hot Rod's teasing, and Bumblebee's team's goodnatured ribbing.

"Vocalizer still shorting out, I see," Springer says, one hand clamping down on Bee's aft to support his bonded as the other settles just below those adorable, perky wings of his.

"_It comes and goes_," Bumblebee replies, pressing their helms together with more force, as though trying to meld them together through pressure alone. "_We didn't think there were any more survivors_."

Springer chuckles. "We're Wreckers. Of course we made it."

Bee's grip on his head tightens, enough to dent had Springer not retained his battle armor. The war might be over but he's no fool. _"Missed you_."

Some of the humor fades, replaced by a wave of loneliness that speaks of the vorns of separation between them, and the last time Springer saw his bonded, right before Megatron nearly offlined him.

His optics dim at the painful memory and Springer understands why Bee is clinging so tightly. "_I know_," Springer says, shifting to the internal transmission.

_"Don't leave again_."

"_Never_." And this time, it doesn't have to sound like a lie.

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><p>an: I liked this pairing when I first started writing it, but I don't think I pulled it off as well as I'd hoped. Nothing for that but to try again.


	61. Big Guns, G1, Megatron and Bluestreak

**Title: Big Guns**

**Characters: Bluestreak, Megatron, Hound**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: In which Bluestreak likes big guns and Megatron is outraged. **

* * *

><p>It seemed impossible that so much violence could be leashed but here he was, the Slagmaker himself, bound and chained in the Autobot brig.<p>

It was a temporary state of affairs, until a proper trade could be arranged. The Autobot's didn't have the resources to keep him contained for an extensive period and Prime wouldn't sanction an execution.

Which left an exchange.

Acquiring Megatron had been a stroke of luck, purely accidental. Or perhaps intentional. Either Megatron hadn't meant to get between Starscream and his target, or the treacherous Seeker had aimed for his leader in the first place.

In the end, Megatron had taken a null ray to the helm, fritzed his neural circuits, and collapsed in an ungainly heap.

Right at Prime's feet.

Starscream screeched a retreat, claiming that he was now the leader of the Decepticons, and Megatron's loyaler soldiers couldn't get past the combined forces of Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Cliffjumper to get to their fallen master.

Soundwave had, however, managed to snatch Ratchet in their abrupt escape. That had been a factor of Ratchet's inability to maintain his own safety when a patient's spark was on the line and his usual bodyguard being said patient.

So. An exchange was imminent.

For now, however, they had a caged beast glaring at them with baleful red optics and a growling, miner's engine. Megatron was draped in chains six ways from Moonbase but he looked no less dangerous, no less feral. Like he was ready to pounce should the opportunity arise and woe be unto the Autobot who stepped into his path. He was coiled, murderous intent, a predator waiting for a tasty snack to wander into his path.

Why the Decepticons would follow him was increasingly obvious. Megatron exuded power and confidence the same way Prime exuded virtue and truth. Megatron was a mech you feared; Prime was a mech you loved.

No wonder they hated each other.

Megatron's frame was scarred and pitted from countless battles. He wore those imperfections like badges of pride. Sunstreaker would shudder at the sight of them, but Megatron's plating was a landscape of stories, each mark a memory of survival.

He didn't move from where they'd left him, arms chained to the wall, his legs clamped in stasis cuffs. His vents were even, controlled, and his optics continued to glow with dangerous intent.

"What the frag are you staring at, little bot?" the Decepticon leader growled, his vocalizer a raspy purr from the dark.

Next to Bluestreak, Hound jumped, startled by the sudden vocalization.

Bluestreak, however, had been waiting for it. He bit back a smirk. "Is there harm in looking?" he asked.

"Bluestreak!" Hound hissed, chastising. They weren't supposed to talk to prisoners.

Megatron laughed, his amusement the sort that mocked rather than agreed. "Am I a sideshow attraction? Since when does Prime send his softer soldiers to serve as my guard?"

Softer? Hah. It would take more than that to offend Bluestreak. Yes, he'd gained a reputation for being cute and innocent. It was hilarious far from the truth. Except for the cute part. He was pretty slagging cute.

"Since I'm one of the few who can shoot you down in half an astrosecond without causing fatal damage," Bluestreak said.

Hound hissed at him again, like he was two steps from contacting Red Alert just to make Bluestreak stop. But nope. He was having way too much fun.

Megatron scoffed. "Is that so? And that's why you're staring at me in fear? What makes you think you can do it, baby bot?"

Bluestreak's lips twitched. "You mistake fear for curiosity." He stepped closer to the bars, that hummed at his proximity. "For instance, I can't help but wonder what I feels like to pull your trigger."

Silence filled the brig. Hound gaped at him.

Bluestreak smirked.

Megatron's optics widened. "Y-you—!" He spluttered.

Inside, Bluestreak was laughing his aft off.

"I am a sniper, after all," he said and made a pointed effort to look Megatron up and down. "And I've always liked big guns."

"Th—this is an outrage!" Megatron roared and the chains rattled as he jerked in them. "I'll not be mocked by you! Is this how Autobots treat their prisoners? Get Prime down here right now!"

"Sorry, he's a bit busy right now," Bluestreak said and turned back toward Hound, who was given him a look stuck between astonishment and amusement.

"I can't decide if you're brave or crazy," he said.

Bluestreak chuckled. "Can't I be both?" he asked brightly as Megatron continued to howl his outrage.

* * *

><p>an: I had so much fun writing this. Bluestreak is quickly nudging his way to my top five favorites list.

Hope you enjoyed!


	62. Hating Autobots, TFP, KO and Breakdown

**Title: Of Hating Autobots**

**Characters: Knock Out, Breakdown**

**Universe: Prime**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: Knock Out rants; Breakdown endures. **

* * *

><p>"I fragging hate Autobots!" Knock Out snarls, throwing both hands into the air as he paces back and forth in the medbay, knocking down anything in his path.<p>

The noisy clomp-clomp of Breakdown following him around seems to punctuate his mood perfectly.

"Hah. Don't we all?" Breakdown says and attacks his backplate with a buffer the very moment Knock Out pauses when he catches sight of his finish in the mirror.

It is atrocious! It is marred! It is imperfection! How dare they?

Another snarl builds up volume. His engine races with a growling, high-performance thrum. If he could only get off this ship and put metal to the pedal, perhaps he could work off this ire.

"Those barbarians!" Knock Out rails, whirling on a pede and stomping back across the floor, kicking at a spare piece of plating that had come loose from his thigh. Fragging Optimus Prime! "With their scraped up paint and their dull finish and their sloppy weld-jobs. Disgusting!"

"They got lucky," Breakdown says and snags Knock Out's right arm, applying the buffer to it as well. "Next time, I'm gonna smash Bulkhead's face in."

"Hah. You keep saying that but I haven't seen it happen yet." Knock Out sniffs and looks down at himself, scowling at the deep gouge in his chestplate. "You see this? It's going to take hours to fix this!"

"Hold still."

Knock Out huffs but subsides. He does want to get fixed after all. He can't leave the medbay looking like a cheap piece of scrap. He has a reputation to maintain.

This is all Starscream's fault. He should have known better. Robbing from the miserable humans is like extending an open invitation to the Autobots!

"Harumph," Knock Out says and twitches again.

"Don't let your finish slide either," Knock Out says, turning his helm to berate his assistant. "I'll not have you walking around looking like some Autobot."

"Whatever you say, Knock Out," Breakdown replies, with the audacity to sound amused.

Knock Out rolls his optics and hunches his shoulders. "Don't take that tone with me. And don't miss a spot either!"

"Yes, yes. I heard you the first time."

Well, at least one thing from today would work out.

* * *

><p>an: First time I had so much fun writing Knock Out and Breakdown. They always have such great, snarky dialogue. I hope I managed to capture that.


	63. Worth It, G1, Bluestreak and Vortex

**Title: Worth It **

**Characters: Bluestreak, Vortex, unnamed Autobots**

**Universe: G1 AU**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: Vortex walks into a bar and gets turned down flat. Poor Vortex. **

* * *

><p>"Well," Vortex drawls as he slides into the empty stool beside the grey Praxian. "What's a cute little 'Bot like you doing in a place like this?"<p>

Doorwings twitch as the mech turns to face him, lips curling upward in a smirk. "Last time I checked, factions didn't matter here."

Vortex laughs and signals the bartender for a cube of his most violent grade. Which, apparently, is the same thing the Autobot is drinking. The Praxian's got bearings of duryibllium, doesn't he?

"It's more a factor that you look a little out of place than the brand you carry," Vortex points out, finger jabbing at the happy little Autobot face on the mech's shoulder. "The name's Vortex."

"I know." Blue optics rake him from helm to pede. "You've got a reputation around the universe. And not a good one."

High grade sloshes as a cube is plunked down in front of Vortex. He tosses it back. "Gimme another," he orders, and wriggles his rotors. "You gonna tell me your name or do I have to give you one?"

"How about 'not a chance on Cybertron'?" the Autobot offers, swiveling around in his stool, one hand curled around a cube. "Or 'you couldn't handle this, 'Con'."

Vortex's laugh echoes throughout the bar, attracting more than their share of attention. Including that group of Autobots at the back, all glowering Vortex's direction like he was going to defile their little Praxian here in plain sight or something.

"You've got some fire in you, don't you?" Vortex asks and leans against the bar, openly admiring the Autobot. He feels he should know this one, but his databanks keep coming up with a big question mark. "Let me buy you a cube."

"Oh, I think I can buy my own." The cute Autobot slides off his stool, doorwings flickering at Vortex as though taunting him for wanting what he can't have. "But maybe if you're lucky, you'll walk out of here alive." His helm tilts pointedly toward the table of Autobots, all of whom are bristling with menace.

Vortex isn't worried. Sure he's outnumbered. Sure Ons told him that the next time he got jailed he wouldn't get bailed out. Sure this is just the sort of thing that Megatron frowns upon in their current state of uneasy truce.

But this cheeky little Praxian might just be worth the risk.

Vortex watches the doorwinged mech all but saunter out of the bar, high-fiving his fellow Autobots on the way out.

He'll call round one to the Autobot. This time. But he better watch out. Because the cute Praxian is in Vortex's sights, and he hasn't lost a single mark yet.

The game is on.

* * *

><p>an: I thoroughly enjoy writing both of these characters. Vortex is such a challenge and Bluestreak is such a tease. :p

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	64. Reckless Behavior (OptimusxTwins, G1)

**Title: Reckless Behavior**

**Characters: SideswipexSunstreakerxOptimus, Ratchet, Autobots**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: mentions of twincest, threesome, sticky**

**Description: It's an open secret, no matter how circumspect they try to be. **

* * *

><p>"I can't decide who's more reckless!" Ratchet snarls as he slams a handful of tools onto the tray between Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's medberths. On Sideswipe's other side is Optimus Prime, immobile from the waist down but otherwise, unharmed.<p>

They are, all three of them, scrapped to the Pit and back. But it's nothing Ratchet can't fix. Nothing they won't survive. All in all, it's another day in the Ark's medbay.

"Do you know that I spend more than seventy percent of my supplies on you three!" Ratchet shouts, hands waving in the air wildly, but gentle as they attack the seeping gash on Sunstreaker's mid-section.

Sideswipe, more than a little amused, tries and fails to hide his laugh. "Only seventy? We must be doing something wrong. Ow!" Head ringing from the blow, Sideswipe tosses Ratchet a wounded look, which fails to garner some sympathy.

"Why I even bother I don't know!" Ratchet continues without a moment's pause, providing entertainment to everyone else in the medbay, whose minor injuries are being tended by Hoist and Wheeljack, the latter of which always acquires some hesitation from the patients involved.

"I fix you, you run out there and get scrapped on purpose!" the medic snarls, punctuating his anger with bangs and hand-waves and welding.

Sideswipe's so used to it by now that he can recite Ratchet's diatribe by spark.

He turns his helm toward his twin, whose optics are dim from the sedatives. It's a good thing, since Sunstreaker's the worst off considering Menasor had stepped on him. And that was after he'd gotten between Starscream and Bluestreak.

Sideswipe reaches out, brushing his fingers over Sunstreaker's hand, and feels the warm surge of affection and relief across their bond. Sunstreaker's lips twitch in that half-smile, half-sneer he's managed to perfect and then he slips off into recharge, at ease in Ratchet's care like no one else's.

Ratchet's background ranting is music to Sideswipe's audials. He turns his helm to the other side, where a dim-opticked Optimus Prime is giving his Chief Medic a most indulgent look. It's that mushy look he always gives those in his chain of command, that speaks volumes of his pride and faith in his Autobots.

But then he turns his attention to Sideswipe, looking briefly past him to check on Sunstreaker before focusing on Sideswipe again. There's more than just indulgence in his optics now. There's affection and relief, too. A bit of commiseration, also, as Ratchet's ranting gains volume and amusement from the other Autobots.

Optimus' much longer arm stretches across the space between their berths, tapping against Sideswipe's hip in question. It's easy enough for Sideswipe to slide his hand down – both of them escaped uninjured – and curl his fingers with Optimus'. He squeezes once or twice, just to reassure their Prime, and then lets go.

Their relationship is one of those well-known secrets. No one acknowledges it aloud, but Ironhide gives Prime all these knowing looks and Ratchet mutters subvocally and Prowl knows better than to give them too many opposing schedules and Red Alert grumbles about security risks and Elita One keeps sending Sideswipe tips and tricks that kind of frighten him.

So everyone knows but still, they try to be circumspect. As circumspect as Sideswipe is capable of anyway. Sunstreaker has no problems keeping his mouth shut but Sideswipe wants to shout the truth to the world sometimes. If only to remind Megatron to keep his grubby paws off.

Yeah, Prime waves it off, but Sideswipe's seen it. Megatron takes every chance he can get to sneak in a grope or two, pervy 'Con. It frags Sunstreaker off something serious, which explains a good portion of their prior residences in the medbay. Because if Sunstreaker's going after old Buckethead, Sideswipe's right beside him.

Optimus' lectures about getting in over their helms are about as well-received as Ratchet's.

"Gotta stake our claim, Boss," Sideswipe likes to tell him with a smirk.

Sunstreaker doesn't bother with words. He just tackles Optimus as soon as they are released and proceeds to frag him into the berth. Sideswipe's content to watch through the first overload, happily stroking his own spike until they give him an opening to join in the fun.

Ratchet usually has to fix those dings and scrapes and dents afterward, too. Though instead of yelling, he smirks and gives them all knowing looks while telling Optimus he's glad their Prime is taking the time to relax.

There isn't anything as adorable as the sight of Optimus snapping his mask closed to conceal the embarrassment on his face.

Speaking of...

Sideswipe turns a blinding grin on Optimus. "Later," he says with a cheeky wink and the rumble of interest from their Prime is audible to pretty much everyone.

"Not if I have anything to say about it." Ratchet plants himself between their berths, blocking their view, waving a handful of static bandages at the both of them. He's giving them the stink optic in alternating intervals, now that Sunstreaker's down for the count and unreceptive to his ire. "No interfacing shenanigans tonight!"

Sideswipe chuckles, letting the medic's ranting wash over and through him. Optimus is offering that stupid indulgent expression again while Sideswipe gets comfortable. It's going to be a long afternoon, crammed in this medbay with his lover and his brother and his Autobot family so he ought to get some recharge while he can.

After all, he won't be getting any tonight.

* * *

><p>an: Continuing my love of writing Optimus with the Twins. I can never resist such a good prompt.

Feedback is always welcome. :)


	65. Privilege (MiragexMegatron, Bay)

**Title: Privilege**

**Characters: MegatronxMirage, Optimus Prime**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-films**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implied orgy, implied tactile**

**Description: Sometimes, being a noble has all the best perks, including the chance to grace the berths of the Prime and his Lord Protector. **

* * *

><p>Some orns, it's a slagging good time to be a noble. They get all the great opportunities.<p>

Only peripherally does Mirage recognize the couple on the other side of the berth, the Lord Prime and his chosen consort for the cycle. The majority of Mirage's attention is saved for the mech beneath him, all solid plating and angled lines and fierce passion. The crimson optics of the Lord High Protector stare back at him; the heavy wave of Megatron's energy field washes over Mirage from helm to pede.

He shivers, inundated by the weight of that power. Lord Megatron is a mech who exudes confidence and power, and it is all too evident in his field. Mirage feels tiny next to the Lord High Protector, not unsurprising given that he is half Megatron's height and less than half his weight.

Lord Megatron chuckles, his massive hands resting on Mirage's waist, encircling them with ease. "You are an eager one," he says, deep vocals rumbling through his chassis and vibrating Mirage's frame. "You are what? Second frame?"

"Third," Mirage says, hands planted on Megatron's chassis, fingers small and nimble enough to slide between seams, caress the conduits and cables beneath. "Though I can understand how you would be mistaken."

"Indeed." One massive hand slides up, traces his backstrut, finger brushing the back of Mirage's helm. "You are delicate. I fear breaking you."

Mirage manages a smile, though his fans are going full-force, his entire frame thrumming with need. Charge crackles over his plating, dancing from his substructure to snap against Lord Megatron's heavy armor.

"I am sturdier than you think," he promises and rolls his hips, eliciting a _shinnnnk _of metal on metal that echoes in the room.

Another bass-born chuckle vibrates through the room and Megatron's hand cups Mirage's helm, fingers stroking the elegant curves and dancing over a sensory array. Mirage shivers.

"I suppose I'll have to find out," Megatron says.

"There will be no breaking of the pretty nobles, brother," comes the Lord Prime's chastisement from the other side of the room, punctuated by a whimper of pleasure from his berthmate. "We are still paying for the last one."

Amusement ripples through Lord Megatron's field, mingling nicely with Mirage's own, prickling over his sensory net. "I haven't forgotten, you nanny-bot."

"Should I be scared?" Mirage asks, though of all the emotions cascading through him, fear is the last of them.

"Only if it excites you, pretty one." Lord Megatron's other thumb presses against his pelvic plating, the tip of it nudging a bundle of cables beneath, and Mirage's spark throbs. "Shall we begin?"

There is no way in the Pit Mirage is going to say otherwise.

* * *

><p>an: Feedback is always welcome and appreciated. Readers give some of the best prompts I noticed. Be sure to keep an eye on my livejournal for opportunities to leave prompts of your own. :)


	66. Rumor to the Test, G1, Bluestreak

**Title: Rumor to the Test**

**Characters: BluestreakxSkywarp**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Implications of kink**

**Description: Bluestreak walks in to find a Seeker on his berth and what else can he do but make the most of it? **

* * *

><p>Bluestreak can honestly say that he never expected to find himself in this particular situation.<p>

There's a Seeker lounging on his berth – twirling a pair of handcuffs, no less – and sporting a cheesy grin that could put some of Sideswipe's to shame. Bluestreak recognizes him on the spot, of course, and a part of him isn't surprised. Of all the Seekers, Skywarp is the one most known for getting places he shouldn't be. He's a teleporter; it comes with the territory.

Bluestreak honestly doesn't know if he should be whipping out his blaster, aiming his rocket launchers, contacting Prowl, or diving into the berth to show the Seeker the meaning of the term "fraternization". Possibly all four.

"Well," Bluestreak says, careful to keep his tone light as he eyes the grinning Decepticon. "I don't know what you're doing here or how you got in here. Wait. Scratch that. It's obvious how you got in here. What I don't know is why and it's kind of creepy and I'm going to need an explanation in about three seconds or I'm going to shoot your helm off. Ratchet can fix you, I've seen him do it, so you'll survive, but it won't be fun for any of us, least of all me, because then I'll have to clean you off my berth. So. Talk."

Skywarp bursts into laughter, gales of it, his wings rattling from the force of it. "Talk, he says. Like I can get a word in edgewise."

Bluestreak lowers his helm, letting his blaster fill with charge, knowing that the distinctive click and whine is a universal sign.

"But I think that's what everyone likes about you," Skywarp adds, voice sliding into a purr. "That and apparently, your phenomenal berth skills." He pauses, twirling the handcuffs again. "Oh, and I suppose we'll just have to see who's faster. Your blaster or my teleporting."

Bluestreak cycles his optics, defense protocols stalling in confusion. "Phenomenal?"

"Or so I've heard." Skywarp eases off the berth, which he'd barely fit on in the first place, and manages to stand without looming, though how he does it is a mystery to Bluestreak. "Care to put fact to rumor?"

All of Bluestreak's weapons power down. "You came here to ask me to interface?" he asks, and because it sounds so ludicrous, he has to clarify. "Is there no one on the Nemesis capable of interfacing or something because honestly, I'm finding this a bit hard to believe. I'm flattered, believe me, I'm flattered, but also, a little disturbed."

Skywarp's grin widens, his wings perked and flickering – flirting, if Bluestreak knows his wing-language. "Oh, there's plenty interested. But one might say I have a taste for the unusual and well, Autobot chatter has made me quite intrigued."

Autobot chatter? Bluestreak rolls his optics. Soundwave. Has to be. That mech is like the definition of a voyeur, though it's a bit of a surprise that he shares his observations with his fellow Decepticons.

There's only way to respond to that, Bluestreak supposes.

He squints at Skywarp, planting his hands on his hips. "Are you crazy?"

"No, I'm not. Starscream had me tested." Skywarp chuckles, moves closer, and there's less threat in the movement than there is seduction. "I am, however, serious. So what do you say? Want to show a Seeker how to have a good time?"

Bluestreak must admit, the offer is a tad bit tempting. He doesn't consider himself the most arrogant of the Autobots, but bragging rights are always a nice plus.

Fraternization is frowned upon, but then, no one's hauling Smokescreen in for that whatever he has going on with Vortex. Optimus tends to be indulgent, talking about the need to build bridges in an effort to end the war sooner. Bluestreak thinks he just wants an excuse for groping Megatron mid-battle.

"I don't know," Bluestreak says, letting his field trickle out slowly, sweeping across Skywarp's plating in a slow, slide of sensation. "What's in it for me?"

"The chance to berth a Seeker?" Skywarp offers and starts twirling those handcuffs again, implying that Bluestreak can use them, should he so desire.

Bluestreak rolls his optics. "Been there, done that. And no, I'm not going to tell you who. That's my secret to know and yours to forever wonder about." He smirks, eying those cuffs. "What else do you have to offer?"

It is Skywarp's turn to purr, his Decepticon optics deepening in hue. "The fact that these aren't the only fun I brought with me." He raises his hand, making the cuffs glint. "There's more in my subspace."

Even more tempting.

"And I can use it at my discretion?" Bluestreak bargains, certain that whatever Skywarp has, he can make use of.

"Of course." Skywarp's field gives a happy clip, nudging against Bluestreak's own.

He arches an orbital ridge, teetering toward the path of sensual satisfaction. "And you realize that by showing up here, asking and agreeing, that you give full consent to any and everything I might do to make you scream your pleasure?"

The blast of arousal that slams Bluestreak's field is about all the confirmation he needs. But words are nice, too. Especially when Skywarp steps forward, drops to his knees, and tilts his helm back. His optics latch onto Bluestreak's – oh, someone has taught him well – and he offers up the handcuffs.

"Yes," Skywarp murmurs with a coy twitch of his wings. "Master."

A shiver races down Bluestreak's backplate and he knows that refusal is no longer an option. Not with Skywarp offering himself so willingly. Bluestreak has always been weak for the hungry ones.

"All right," he murmurs, raising a hand to cup Skywarp's face, thumb stroking the sweep of a cheekarch. "Then let the games begin."

* * *

><p>an: I swear. Readers come up with some of the best prompts.

I've almost caught up all my posting. Sorry in advance for the fic spam!


	67. An Awkward Encounter, TFP, Smokescreen

**Title: An Awkward Encounter**

**Characters: Smokescreen, Megatron, Ultra Magnus, Bulkhead, Wheeljack**

**Universe: TFP, post-Predacons Rising**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Canon-typical violence **

**Description: It was supposed to be a routine patrol, until the zombie predacons attacked and Megatron swooped in to save the day. **

* * *

><p>It was supposed to be a routine patrol, mapping the ruins of Cybertron, keeping his sensors primed for stray Decepticons unwilling to accept Megatron's dismissal and the end of the war.<p>

The last thing Smokescreen expected to encounter was a lingering zombie predacon. Still, he could have handled it. He popped off a call to headquarters, primed his blaster and readied his phase shifter.

And then a second zombiecon shuffled out of the shadows and Smokescreen began to feel a little outnumbered.

Backup would arrive ASAP.

He could make it.

Until he lost an arm and with it, his signature move. Spurting energon, pain making his vision blurry, Smokescreen counted the seconds. One predacon moved in on him, unhinged jaw agape. The other swiped at him with surprisingly swift claws, wings splayed and bare of flat planes.

At least, Smokescreen thought, I'll go out in a blaze of glory.

Thank you, Wheeljack, for this one emergency grenade.

Smokescreen chucked it between the groaning, lumbering zombicons and just as he turned to run, a silver mass struck him out of nowhere.

Smokescreen tumbled across the ground, one doorwing slamming down with a loud snap. He groaned, kicking and flailing at whatever had attacked him, certain that a third predacon was trying to eat his brain module.

"Stop struggling!"

The growled command pierced Smokescreen's panic and he froze.

Oh, Primus.

He knew that voice. He knew that harsh click, the sharp whine of a fusion cannon powering up. And, in recollection, he knew that shade of silver paint.

He remembered the grenade.

"Wait!"

Too late.

Fusion cannon met grenade and resulted in a spectacular explosion that rattled the ground and lit up the sky. A cloud of metal shavings burst up and outward. Pieces of zombiecon flew every which way.

Megatron shielded Smokescreen with his own frame just as the blastwave hit them. Smokescreen struggled to keep conscious, but it was a battle lost.

He rebooted within seconds, half-expecting to find it all some strange recharge purge. Except that it wasn't because Megatron was still sprawled atop him. Big. And heavy. And spiky. And his frame expelled heat in thick bursts, metal ticking as it cooled, plating vibrating as his cooling fans spun.

He also wasn't moving.

Primus.

Well, Smokescreen thought as his interface protocols pinged online and his panel started to heat, this is awkward. His faceplates heated.

Did it have to be Megatron? Of all the big mechs on the planet, did it have to be their most fearsome enemy? Or former enemy. Or however that worked now.

At least the zombiecons were destroyed.

"Um." Smokescreen squirmed, armor scraping against armor in an audible shriek. His doorwing ached. "Could you get off me?"

Megatron groaned and twitched.

"Not that I'm ungrateful," Smokescreen hastened to add because Megatron had a legendary temper and Smokescreen liked his limbs intact, especially since he was already missing one. "But you're kind of..." -_arousing_- "...squishing me."

Megatron grunted and then, finally, pushed his upper frame up, optics regarding Smokescreen like he'd never seen the Autobot before. Or like he'd completely forgotten how he'd ended up in this particular position.

Smokescreen stared back because, yeah, _awwwwwkward_.

His cooling fans clicked on with a telling whirr.

Megatron tilted his helm, lips curling into an amused smirk, revealing those pointed denta.

Which was, of course, the perfect time for back up to arrive. In came the cavalry, blasters blazing, engines revving...

Optics staring.

Smokescreen tipped his helm back, offering Wheeljack, Ultra Magnus, and Bulkhead a thin smile.

"Um. It's not what it looks like?" he tried.

Megatron rolled his optics and then rolled to his pedes all in one smooth motion, ignoring the flattened Autobot beneath him.

"I don't have time for this," he said, and took off into the air, transforming into alt-mode with a quick snap. He was gone in a flash-burn of his thrusters, leaving Smokescreen to deal with the awkward aftermath.

Slagging Decepticon. Smokescreen let his helm thunk against the ground. He wanted his arm back. He wanted his doorwing relocated. He wanted the heat to stop burning in his lines, and his processor to stop offering up images of what else Megatron could have been doing while pinning him to the ground.

He really wanted Ultra Magnus to stop staring at him like that.

Wheeljack cackled, weapon powering down. "Now this I have to hear."

"Yes," Ultra Magnus said. "I, too, would like an explanation."

Bulkhead grimaced.

Smokescreen sighed.

Well, that hadn't gone according to plan at all.

* * *

><p>an: Smokescreen is more adorable than he has a right to be, IMHO. I know a lot of folk weren't too fond of him in the beginning, but he really grew on me. His enthusiasm was infectiously adorable. Heh. Love to write him!

Also, FYI, my LJ does accept anonymous comments so for anyone who's been wanting to make a request but couldn't because they didn't have an account, you totally can! I'm anticipating the next Flash Fiction Friday to be on March 7th.

As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!


	68. Taking the Leader, G1, Blue and Megatron

**Title: Taking the Leader **

**Universe: G1 AU**

**Characters: BluestreakxMegatron, Decepticon Ensemble, Autobot Ensemble**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implications of smut, dirty talk, flirtations**

**Description: The challenge had been laid and only Bluestreak rose to it.**

**(Prompt originally grabbed from a Commentfic and Robot Porn Party on Dreamwidth)**

* * *

><p>The challenge had been laid but the only one more surprised by Bluestreak's victory was Bluestreak himself.<p>

"Well," he said, doorwings fluttering as he looked up at the massive Decepticon warlord, fingers twitching in remembrance. "I didn't see that coming."

"I did!" Jazz announced, only to be tackled into silence by a half-dozen Autobots, all eager to see what happened next. A few Decepticons looked envious of the pile of heated frames, though until the victory was declared and consummated, they wouldn't be allowed to enjoy.

Megatron's lips curled with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. "I should have guessed," he said, rich vocal tones washing through Bluestreak's audials and making him shiver. "A near-perfect score."

Bluestreak's internals squirmed with arousal. Pre-competition jitters had made his first shot off the mark, but once he'd become accustomed to the weight and power and – Primus, he pressurized just thinking about it – grip, it was smooth sailing.

"Well," he said, again, with a smile. And was he _flirting _with Megatron? "I had the best weapon for the job."

Yes, yes he was. Completely. But who wouldn't?

Megatron gave him a startled look, but then burst into laughter, field flush with pride and approval. "One you handled with utmost skill," he said.

Bluestreak's field spiked, cooling fans bursting to life. Megatron was flirting with him in return. _Megatron_ was _flirting_ with _him. _It took all the self-control he had not to suddenly start pawing at the Decepticon warlord like a starved mech. Just the knowledge that he was soon going to be taking Megatron in front of Autobot and Decepticon alike was enough to make his spike throb behind his panel. He sent another override to keep it locked in place, though he was rapidly losing the battle.

"That's not all he's good at handling!" someone from the crowd shouted and Bluestreak knew that if he looked, Sideswipe would be there with a slag-eating grin.

Bluestreak's faceplate burned hotter.

"Is that so?" Megatron asked, field pulsing with intrigue.

Time to summon up all the gall Bluestreak had in storage. "Yes," he said, and reached out, dragging a finger down the barrel of Megatron's fusion cannon, remembering all too well the power it contained. A sharp pulse of desire attacked him as static danced along the barrel. "And now I'm going to show you."

* * *

><p>an: I just love writing a confident Bluestreak. He's so awesome. If I can get my smutty muses to work, I will write a follow-up to this. Though if it ends up half as smutty as I'm imagining it, I'll only be able to post it on AO3. Such is life. :)

As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	69. Dreams, IDW, Cyclonus and Tailgate

**Title: Dreams**

**Characters: Cyclonus, Tailgate **

**Universe: Transformers MTMTE**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: canon-typical violence**

**Description: Cyclonus dreams, Tailgate wakes, violence ensues. **

* * *

><p>He jerks online, fuel pump stuttered and spark racing and field fluxing. Recently upgraded defensive routines cycle to life and for a long, dark moment, Tailgate thinks he's trapped again, believing rescue will be an unspecified soon.<p>

Then his audios register sound, noise that hadn't been with him in that dark place and Tailgate remembers. The Lost Light. His accident. His roommate.

Cyclonus.

He onlines his optics and turns his helm, staring at Cyclonus in the next berth over. The flier is visibly twitching, his field fluctuating wildly and thrashing around the room like a wild thing. It's sort of lashing out, as though trying to protect Cyclonus from an unknown threat.

Ah. This again.

Tailgate sits up, slides off the berth, and creeps to Cyclonus' side. It's always a risk to try and wake the once-Decepticon. Cyclonus rarely onlines in a friendly mood. And if he's having a purge, well, he's likely to online with battle protocols ready and his blaster charged and Tailgate doesn't want to explain that to Ratchet again. Last time had been humiliating enough and he'd spent half his shift trying to convince Swerve and Skids that no, Cyclonus wasn't beating him up in his recharge and no, they didn't need to get Rodimus involved, and seriously no, they didn't need to send out a hit squad.

Whatever the slag a hit squad is but considering the way Whirl had been leering and clacking his pincers together with eagerness in his field, Tailgate had his suspicions. Give Whirl an inch and he'll take a megamile.

Tailgate cycles a ventilation, considers his options, and tries not to cringe. He could let Cyclonus ride out the purge. It wouldn't be the first time. But the idea of sitting here and watching his roommate suffer doesn't sit well with Tailgate either.

He can't imagine what haunts Cyclonus' recharge cycle but Tailgate's had a few purges of his own, and they aren't anything he'd like to repeat. He'd be grateful if someone had ever waken him from his.

Then again, this is Cyclonus. He's prickly at the best of times and Tailgate can't see him being grateful either. He'd probably sulk once he's realized he'd been caught in a moment of weakness.

Tailgate sighs to himself, wringing his fingers together.

Cyconlus sucks in a sharp ventilation, his field flailing out and all but smacking Tailgate aside. It's getting a bit violent in here and maybe it's compassion. Maybe it's self-preservation. Whatever it is, Tailgate doesn't much think when he reaches out and taps Cyclonus on the nearest armor panel he can reach.

"Uh, Cyclonus-"

Wham!

Tailgate groans, thoughts spinning, aching as he slides down the wall and lands on wobbling legs. He had seen this coming and he's never going to live this down. Ratchet will give him that look, suggest he takes Swerve up on his offer to share quarters again. Which, don't get him wrong, Tailgate likes Swerve but he doesn't particularly want to share a hab-suite with the garrulous mech.

Ouch.

He lifts a hand, pressing it gingerly to his helm. No dents this time. Maybe he'll be able to avoid Ratchet then?

Tailgate onlines his optical band, testing a glance Cyclonus' direction. His optic band brightens in disbelief.

He's still in recharge! That... that... ARGH.

Tailgate pushes himself upright, ignoring the dizziness in his helm, and stomps over to his berth. Fine. Let him suffer!

He climbs back into his berth, flops down and ex-vents noisily. His aft hurts.

He glares in Cyclonus' direction and then he realizes, his roommate's field isn't so vile anymore. It's not lashing angrily throughout their suite, threatening to make Tailgate dizzier. Cyclonus isn't twitching or groaning anymore either.

He's still in recharge, but he's no longer suffering it.

Tailgate brightens by a degree. Okay, so he hadn't caused Cyclonus to wake up, but he'd achieved the desired effect. He considers that a win. Even if his aft is dented now.

Satisfied, Tailgate rolls over and returns to recharge.

* * *

><p>an: I have to admit. Readers can often give the best prompts. :) It's fun to dip my toes into IDW. Lots of relatively new characters to play with!

Prompt Palooza is still on-going and will be until April 30th, on my livejournal. You can leave multiple prompts if you want! That's the whole point.

Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.


	70. Warnings, Bay, Jazz and Starscream

**Title: Warnings**

**Characters: JazzxStarscream**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-canon**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: **

**Description: Jazz has a bad feeling, but Starscream is confident. **

* * *

><p>"You do know that he's going to kill you."<p>

His lover smirks, a touch too confident. "He will try," Starscream says with a twitch of his wings. "He will not succeed."

Jazz snorts, a sound he picked up from an organic on his last mission. He's found it oddly useful. He's picked up a few others, too: sighing, coughing, sneezing. The latter amuses Starscream greatly.

Some orn, when this war is through, maybe they'll go there together. As a vacation. By the time Jazz left, the organics had been fond of him. It would be a good planet for Cybertronians to visit. Right now, there aren't many like that left in the universe.

"I should go instead," Jazz says as he returns to the task at hand, stripping Starscream of every last definable color on his armor. "I'd be more believable."

"We are both suited," Starscream replies. "But we also both know he doesn't need another one of your kind. He needs an Air Commander now that Dreadwing is incapacitated. Name one other who is more suited than myself."

Ah, and there's the arrogance that Jazz knows so well. The confidence, too. Starscream is many things, but uncertain is not one of them.

"And if the rumors are true?" Jazz asks, circling around to get to Starscream's back, careful as always with the wings.

"You mean, if he's altering a mech's primary coding? Impossible. It can't be done," says Starscream, playfully twitching a wing. "He'd have an army of dead soldiers, not willing warriors. You can't alter that kind of coding without causing a cascade effect."

"But if he can...?"

"He cannot," Starscream says, tone firm.

Jazz sighs a ventilation. "Then let me code your firewalls. You know mine are the best."

Starscream chuckles, his field reaching for Jazz's and giving him a comforting stroke. "No. Prowl's are the best, and you and I both know it. He's already agreed to bolster what I have."

"You're not programmed for long-term, deep cover," Jazz argues because frag it, he's got a feeling. It's not rooted in logic, but something spark deep. This isn't going to work like they all want –need- it to. Something's going to go wrong.

If Megatron were sane, if he operated on logic, then maybe, maybe this could work. But if that were true, then this whole war wouldn't exist in the first place.

"And this is not, precisely, a covert mission," Starscram replies.

"Frag it, you have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Not everything, but for your arguments, yes." Starscream reaches behind himself with those oddly long arms and snags Jazz, distracting him from his paint-stripping.

He grumbles as he's pulled into his partner's arms, muttering about how much larger than him Starscream is. Though that's always been the case. Jazz is a ground-based form; Starscream is a flier. They are never going to be similar in stature.

Jazz huffs. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"And you're going to have to trust that I know what I'm doing," Starscream says, his red optics gleaming back at Jazz. "After all, I do the same after you've been sent on one of your little walks, haven't I?"

Jazz goes over several arguments in his helm before he squares his jaw and thumps his fist on Starscream's chestplate. "There's no winning with you," he mutters.

Starscream doesn't bother to conceal his smug grin. "No, there isn't. Which is why this is going to work. Megatron doesn't stand a chance."

Jazz wants to believe that. But his instincts tell him otherwise. It's clear there's no convincing Starscream otherwise, however, so the best he can do is prepare his lover to the best of his abilities.

This has to work.

* * *

><p>an: Just your typical pre-canon ficlet. Don't mind me. :) I love writing Starscream-snark. He's so much fun!

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.

And if you'd like to support an independent artist, check out my profile! I recently published a fantasy short story through Amazon and I'd be thrilled if you checked it out.


	71. Inescapable, TFA, OP and Megatron

a/n: This is a sequel to the previous chapter entitled "A Prime Problem."

**Title: Inescapable**

**Characters: Megatron, Optimus**

**Universe: Transformers Animated**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: unwilling audience, edging toward non-con **

**Description: Optimus ponders his chances; Megatron gives no leeway. **

* * *

><p>He doesn't know what vile plan Megatron has concocted. Optimus doesn't want to know. The infamous Decepticon warlord is the mech nightmares are constructed from.<p>

There is only one thing Optimus is contemplating.

Escape.

Rescue is also an option he'll accept. Though as time passes, it becomes less likely. He is certain Ratchet and the others are trying. But there is hope, reality, and the thin line between and Optimus knows he's walking a very fine line.

His prison, however, is one in name only. It is a small room, but furnished with a berth, a locked energon dispenser, and a table. It is not a brig by any definition. His wrists are still shackled by the stasis cuffs.

His chronometer counts the minutes. Then hours. Then days.

A drone stops by like clockwork, activating the dispenser long enough to retrieve Optimus a cube before it departs again. He has no other visitors.

Optimus can't move. He's certain the door is locked and coded. Even if he were to somehow break free, he's outnumbered, weapon-less and unfamiliar with his surroundings.

He is, as Bumblebee would put it when he thinks Optimus isn't paying attention, fragged.

The door slides open.

Optimus, startled, swings his helm toward it. The drone had been here minutes before. Which means he has a visitor. Though one can hardly call the powerful Decepticon leader a mere visitor.

"Hello, little Prime," Megatron says, stepping inside and letting the door shut behind him. That he's alone proves that he's either an idiot, or someone so confident in his own skills that he doesn't need a bodyguard. "Enjoying the accommodations?"

Optimus cycles through several potential responses, grinding his denta with disdain. "There is little to be had in the way of entertainment."

Megatron smirks, clasping his hands behind his back. "That could change. It would be a shame to keep you prisoner. Not when you can be much, much more."

Why does that sound more like a threat than an offer? And if Megatron thinks Optimus is going to join the Decepticons, then he's clearly more deluded than Optimus ever gave him credit.

"No, thank you," Optimus says through a clenched jaw. "And now that's settled, you can let me go."

Amusement dances in Megatron's optics. He crouches in front of Optimus, tilting his helm to the side. "Not quite. We have much to talk about, you and I, and as long as you are here, I have an audience, however unwilling you may be. To start."

Optimus narrows his optics. "I have no interest in anything you have to say."

"Then allow me to offer you a deal." Megatron reaches for Optimus, one hand tapping his chestplate. "Listen to me without argument. And when I am finished, I will let you leave, provided you still wish to." His fingers drop to Optimus' wrists, one hand touching the stasis cuffs and causing the ready light to shift to yellow – half power. "Deal?"

Optimus eyes the door behind Megatron. He has only to bide his time, wait for an opportunity. Prowl has always stressed the value of patience. It's past time that Optimus listened to him.

"Deal," he agrees.

* * *

><p>an: I'm in the process of being bribed to continue this. I'll do my best to try. I hope you enjoy!


	72. No Place Like Home, IDW, Blurr and Jazz

**Title: No Place Like Home**

**Characters: Blurr, Jazz**

**Universe: Transformers IDW, Robots in Disguise**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: Spoilers for RiD **

**Description: The silent hours of the aftermath. A hint of something more. **

* * *

><p>There's a certain weight to the disappointment that bears down on his spark. Blurr looks at the ruined remains of his bar and thinks '<em>this is why we can't have nice things<em>.'

It doesn't stop him from grabbing a bin and starting the arduous task of collecting debris. He will rebuild. It will be better than it was before. Blurr can't think of anything else to do.

He starts a list, cataloging all that needs to be done. Repairs and replacements must be acquired.

How many of his clientale perished? How many clung to their brands and walked out of the city? How many will blame him for not joining the Autobots?

So much to do, Blurr reflects, his feet crunching over broken glass. His optics take in the sight of scorched paneling. The stench of ash and spilled mechfluid clings to the air.

His home, tainted by war once again. It's almost too demoralizing to fathom. What is the point?

Primus, he could use a drink. But what hadn't been destroyed had been liberated by looters. He was fragging lucky the whole place hadn't burned to the ground.

Footsteps announce the arrival of another mech. The field registers as familiar, friendly, and dare he say it, something more.

"I'm still surprised you're here," Blurr says, taking a piece of shattered chair and tossing it into his box.

"I don't have to like Starscream to think he's right."

Blurr half-turns, sweeping his gaze over Jazz, noting for himself the absence of something that has defined Jazz for as long as they have known each other. "Some might call you a traitor."

Jazz rolls his shoulders and gestures to Blurr with a broom. "Nothing has ever been black and white. Just ask Prowl."

"Yeah. I'll keep that in mind." Blurr's vents hitch in amusement and he turns back to his cleaning.

A beat passes before the sound of the broom sweeping up shattered glass joins the quiet.

"You don't have to help, you know," Blurr says.

"Yeah. I do." Jazz crouches, picking up a small decoration that had survived the chaos, tucking it away into an arm compartment. "It's a side-effect, you know, of being in the Autobots for so long. I gotta have somewhere to belong. I figure here is as good as anywhere."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Blurr, amused, stares at the once temporary leader of the Autobots, who had kept them going through some of their darkest hours. "Was I at least your first choice?"

Jazz grins at him, bracing his weight on the steel-framed broom. "Of course. This bar is home. And maybe the mech who runs it, too."

Blurr's spark flutters. Heat grows beneath his facial plating and he dips his helm, returning to the mess beneath him.

"You know you're always welcome here," Blurr says, uncertainty a new feeling for him, but strangely, not wholly unwanted. It is frighteningly normal. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you stayed."

Jazz starts sweeping again. "Me, too."

* * *

><p>an: More updates to come. I hope you enjoyed!

And if you feel like supporting an independent artist, I've recently self-published a novel on Amazon in both digital and print. Details are on my author's page. Thanks for taking a look!


	73. Special Alone Time, G1, RatchStar

**Title: Special Alone Time**

**Characters: RatchetxStarscream**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None really **

**Description: Starscream pretends to be busy. Ratchet doesn't approve. **

* * *

><p>If there was an Olympic event for marathon whining, Ratchet was sure Starscream would bring home the gold. Nothing was ever good enough. Ratchet worked too much. Their shared room was too small. The Autobots were annoying.<p>

Whine, whine, whine.

Most of the time, Ratchet found it amusing. Possibly even endearing. It was hard to take Starscream seriously through the snark. Ratchet listened to all the complaints, absorbed perhaps a fourth of them, and on occasion, took the time to address the more honest of them.

Because Ratchet _was _a busy mech. Their quarters _were _small. He had to admit that the Autobots could be quite irritating as a whole. And the energon did taste like slag.

But while Ratchet's hands were tied for the most part, it was within his power to arrange for some down time.

So he did. It took bribing and cajoling but by Primus, Ratchet achieved an early dismissal from his shift. Success.

He took the time to make it special. He acquired some special grade energon from Sideswipe, borrowed some fine wax from Tracks, and actually got more than a little excited.

Of course, circumstances being as they were, when Ratchet arrived at his shared quarters with Starscream, the Seeker was bent over a pile of datapads, completely engrossed. He didn't so much as look up when Ratchet came into the room. Nor did he acknowledge Ratchet's presence.

Humph.

Ratchet tumbled his armload of accessories onto their shared berth, walked right up to his mate, and stood behind him, arms planted on his hips. He rebooted his vocalizer with an audible grind – akin to a human clearing their throat, a move Sparkplug had helped him work out how to duplicate.

Nothing.

Ratchet's optics narrowed. "Have I become something of a stranger to you?" he demanded. "Or do I now hold second rank to your research?"

Starscream lifted a hand, flicking his wrist. "I am busy, in case you haven't noticed. Surely you know the meaning of the word 'busy.'"

Was that a not-subtle dig at Ratchet's own level of activity? Could he help that he was the Autobot's Chief Medical Officer? Especially these particular Autobots who were always finding some way to get themselves scraped, banged, broken, and mangled?

"How convenient that you are so busy now that I'm not," Ratchet retorted and he leaned over Starscream's shoulder – an action he knew the Seeker hated – to peer at the datapad that had occupied his mate's attention. "Can't it wait?"

Starscream squirmed. "For your information," he said. "No, it cannot. Now give me some room, or so help me Primus I'll hurt you."

Ratchet snorted, another mannerism he and Sparkplug worked out and leaned back. He crossed his arms and glared at the back of Starscream's helm. From his brief glance, it hadn't appeared Starscream was working on anything more than inventory maintenance, perhaps in preparation for some future experiment.

Which meant that he was putting Ratchet off a-purpose. Punishment, most likely, to the Seeker's Decepticon-influenced processor.

Well, two could play this game. Only Ratchet would use different rules.

He grinned to himself and stepped right up behind Starscream, hovering, only a few bare inches between them. This, he knew, would irritate the Seeker. And now to up the stakes.

Ratchet unfolded his arms and dragged the fingers of his left hand along the outer edge of Starscream's left wing. It was a light, barely-there touch, what humans would call a tickle.

The wing twitched away from his hand.

Smirk widening, Ratchet repeated the action, though this time with his right hand on Starscream's right wing.

Plating ruffled. Starscream twitched, venting loudly. But, Ratchet noticed, he said nothing. Stubborn to a fault, the Seeker was. No matter. Ratchet could be patient when he wanted to be.

Lather, rinse, repeat. First the left wing and then the right. Over and over, driving Starscream to distraction.

Ratchet grew more amused with every passing moment to the same rate that Starscream became irritated, his wings flicking to no avail.

"Quit it," Starscream said, his tone cross.

"No," Ratchet replied.

A low growl developed in the Seeker's chassis. "I'm trying to concentrate."

"I noticed." Flick, flick. Tickle. Flick, flick.

"Ratchet," Starscream hissed, turbines vibrating threateningly. "Cease that at once."

His grin widened. "No." He dragged his fingers across the top edge of Starscream's wing, from the tip to the joint and knew he had won when Starscream shuddered and whipped around, fixing him with a glare.

"Ratchet," he snarled, optics blazing crimson at him, "I'm busy."

"But I missed you," Ratchet replied, making no attempt to hide his smile and trying, in vain, to copy the innocent expression that Sideswipe wielded so well.

Starscream's face went through a contortion of expressions, as though he couldn't decide on outrage or amusement and settled somewhere nearer to exasperation. "And of course you expect me to drop what I'm doing to give you the attention you want?"

"Hmm. Where does that sound familiar?" Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. "I did bring high grade."

Some of the annoyance petered out of Starscream's expression, though his wings still flicked. Much like a cat actually. "Go on."

"And your favorite wax."

Starscream turned around fully, lounging back against his desk with careful shifting of his wings. The cat resemblance became uncanny. "I'm somehow sensing a bribe," he said dryly. "And an apology."

"Is it working?"

With a long, leisurely look at Ratchet from helm to pede, Starscream smirked. "I don't know. Why don't you try and find out?" He lounged, stretching indolently, the very picture of a mech who expected to be treated like royalty.

Some things never changed.

Luckily, for Ratchet, he kind of liked that about Starscream. He was predictable in his unpredictability. And he was hot as all slag, too.

"Your wish is my command," Ratchet said. And it would be such an onerous task.

* * *

><p>an: Occasional OTP strikes again. Special thanks to readers on LJ for all these wonderful prompts!


	74. Corner, TFA, Blurr and Shockwave

**Title: Corner**

**Characters: Blurr, Shockwave, Background OC**

**Universe: TFA, sequel to Expedient**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Unhinged!Blurr, abuse/neglect/humiliation, bad things**

**Description: Shockwave had prepared himself for pain. The truth is something wholly different. **

* * *

><p>The worst part is the lack of pain. Shockwave expects pain, anticipates it. He's prepared himself for it.<p>

Blurr does not serve pain. Instead, he delights in humiliation.

To Shockwave, whose pride has already been ground to inarticulate particles, he thought there was no further he could sink. He was terribly wrong and Shockwave is not a mech accustomed to being wrong.

The defeat of Megatron and subsequent collapse of the Decepticons had been an unexpected outcome. The beginning of the end. Shockwave has not been right since and that, too, is a lesson in humiliation.

Most days, Blurr ignores him. Sometimes, Shockwave believes that the Autobot forgets he exists. Shockwave has learned to function on the barest of energon. Whether Blurr intends to keep him forever under-energized or is simply that unhinged, Shockwave doesn't know. He can predict nothing when it comes to his keeper.

Keeper.

The very term grinds his gears and squeezes his tank.

The days when Blurr deigns to acknowledge Shockwave, as few as they are, become another lesson in humiliation. Accustomed to Lord Megatron's full attention, his praise, Shockwave chafes under the lack of disregard Blurr gives him.

Blurr chatters, often about nonsensical things and too fast to be comprehended. He rants, he rails, he throws accusations. He taunts Shockwave, mocks the Decepticons, and is a constant reminder of what Shockwave has lost.

Shockwave cannot access the news for himself. Blurr, however, is quite content to read it aloud, focusing only on the items that make Shockwave cringe.

Even this, Shockwave endures.

He waits, expectantly, for the day his crazed keeper finally snaps and rips out Shockwave's spark. But that would be mercy and Blurr has none to spare.

Shockwave sits in his corner, paint dull and corroded, largely ignored, and feels the humiliation curdle inside of him like badly processed energon. He thinks longingly of a different world under Lord Megatron's rule and knows that it will never come to pass and that stings like acid rain on his plating.

He watches Blurr live the life Shockwave and the other Decepticons should have had. Blurr, who goes to a well-paid job that he enjoys. Blurr, who enjoys energon spiced to his specific liking. Blurr, who glimmers and shines in the light from expensive paint and wax. Blurr, who on more than one occasion, has brought home a partner and the sounds floating out of the berthroom grate on Shockwave's audials.

"What is that?" one anonymous mech asks as Blurr slyly drags him to a berth.

"Nothing," Blurr says without a glance Shockwave's direction and off they go, to the scent of hot metal, ozone, and the sound of pleasure.

Nothing, he says. And nothing is what Shockwave has become. A pet in the corner, badly mistreated but then, he wonders, maybe even this is preferable.

It could always be worse.

* * *

><p>an: Hard to be sympathetic for a guy with Shockwave's track record but even now I'm contemplating ways to help him escape this very unpleasant situation.


	75. Incentives, G1, RatchetxOptimus

**Title: Incentives**

**Characters: RatchetxOptimus**

**Universe: Bayverse, post-2007 film**

**Rating: T  
><strong>

**Warnings: tactile**

**Description: Ratchet has Optimus right where he wants him. **

* * *

><p>It takes some finagling and much wheedling on Ratchet's part to convince Optimus to step away from diplomatic negotiations and power down for a much-needed defrag. Optimus can't be ordered as much as he is persuaded, especially when error messages pop up too quick to be ignored and glitches make him slip between several Earth languages.<p>

Fortunately, Ratchet is a better orator than he is a medic and he's a fragging good medic. There's a reason Ironhide's still alive and he owes it all to Ratchet, scars notwithstanding. The scars in question being Ironhide's fault because he doesn't know how to be _still_ when Ratchet's performing emergency welds on the battlefield.

But that's neither here nor there.

Because getting Optimus to the berth takes a few promises of Ratchet's own. And it's such an onerous task, joining Optimus in the makeshift warehouse they call shelter, letting his hands roam over elegant armor as Optimus vents heat beneath him. Even better that Ratchet's not here to repair the physical, but simply _enjoy_.

And there's a lot to enjoy about Optimus Prime.

"I will not go quietly," Optimus promises as his hands bury themselves in Ratchet's substructure. Metal makes a _skreel_ of noise across barely padded pavement as he shifts beneath Ratchet. "I am not the only one in need of recharge."

Ratchet draws static with his fingertips, painting arcs of blue with Optimus' field. "Then I suppose you'll have to convince me it's worth my time."

Large, deft hands hook on plating as fingers slide beneath, teasing the subsurface where sensors alight with stimulation. Optimus' engine rumbles, vibrating his frame, the ground, the corrugated walls of their shelter, and by proxy, Ratchet.

"Shall I take that as a challenge?" Optimus purrs, his vocals the perfect timbre to resonate in Ratchet's chassis even as they caress Ratchet's audials.

He shivers, frame becoming a restless motion atop Optimus'. His knees scrape yellow streaks of paint on the concrete, missing the padding entirely. It would be uncomfortable had Ratchet not spent centuries living in the midst of war. Right now, a padded piece of concrete was a fragging luxury.

"It depends on your terms," Ratchet says, meaning to be stern, but it escapes on a pant, a desperate suck of cooler air into his vents. Not that there's much cooler air to be found.

Optimus is blasting heat, dumping it so fast that it's raising the ambient temperature in the warehouse. He seems calm on the outside, amused even, but Ratchet's sensors are telling him otherwise. Beneath the surface, Optimus is a storm begging to be unleashed.

"First to fall obeys the other for, hmm, two megacycles," Optimus offers.

"Two!" Ratchet's outrage echoes in the warehouse, probably audible to all beyond it. Poor humans.

Two megacycles is a fragging long time! But... and Ratchet pauses to consider this. If he were to outlast Optimus, well, he could have Optimus on his back and motionless for some much needed maintenance. For full recharge. For... for everything Optimus has been putting off for the last dozen centuries! The possibilities are endless!

Why, Ratchet could even perform a full systems check if he wanted.

Optimus chuckles at his outrage. "Do you doubt yourself?" he teases.

"Oh, no," Ratchet all but snarls, nearly filled with glee at the opportunity, his caresses doubling in earnest now. Before, this had been meant for recharge alone, now there is much, much more at stake. "I'll have you on a medberth yet!"

Optimus cycles his optics at him, a brief moment of silence swelling in the aftermath of Ratchet's declaration, before he abruptly laughs and rises upward. Ratchet's heavy, built to haul and carry, but it's an effortless motion that sends him tipping sideways. In a blink, he's pinned beneath his leader, half on and half off the spongy padding, heat pouring over his frame in a wave.

"I offer obedience and all you can consider is my physical wellbeing?" Optimus presses their helms together, his engine rumbling with amusement. "Medic, you are an odd one."

Indignation wars with arousal. Ratchet puts forth a token resistance, but he's thoroughly pinned, his hands caught in a vise-like grip, Optimus' much longer lower frame keeping Ratchet's in check. The weight of Optimus' field, his heat, is a tangible presence, surrounding Ratchet with the evidence of power.

Damn Optimus for cheating!

Ratchet wants to roar outrage but what comes out is a hungry moan. A bleating plea for more and harder and yes, sir. He bucks up against Optimus with limited motion, static electricity crackling out from his frame to snap against Optimus' own.

"Cheater!" Ratchet accuses, plating twitching with restless need.

Optimus smirks at him, his helm nuzzling against Ratchet's own. "Do you forfeit?"

"Frag that!"

Optimus' laugh vibrates against his armor. "Then let the games begin."

* * *

><p>an: Just wanted to point out that I also have more flash fiction that I don't post on here, since I know this site has been cracking down on mature content and since I don't want my stuff deleted, I've nixed the more sexier pieces. You can find them on my livejournal or on archive of our own or on my personal website, all the links are in my profile.

More to come! And as always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!


	76. Heel, IDW, Bob and Megatron

a/n: Because I can't resist Bob, I love writing Megatron, and I might have a teensy bit of an adoration for MegatronxSunstreaker... Enjoy!

**Title: Heel!**

**Characters: Megatron, Bob, Sunstreaker**

**Universe: MTMTE, post-Dark Cybertron**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: language **

**Description: Megatron meets a couple members of his new crew. **

* * *

><p>The <em>Lost Light <em>was, reportedly, a Neutral ship by origin. That did not lessen the discomfort that permeated Megatron as he stood outside looking in. Nor did that fact make walking the halls any easier, or examining the bridge and engine room.

It was not a Decepticon ship by any stretch of the imagination and he felt more than a little out of place. It helped, some, that he was surrounded by mechs both Autobot and Decepticon, though there were more of the former than the latter. It did not help that he was sharing captaincy with an idiot. That only made leadership more complicated.

They were set to depart shortly. Megatron wanted to be familiar with every nook and cranny of his ship before they did so. He did not want to be caught off-guard. He wanted to know every member of his crew, old and recently acquired. In one hand, he carried a datapad, skimming the names of mechs, some recognizable and some strangers.

The _Lost Light _had been repaired but there was still evidence of recent battle on the floors and walls. It would take some scrubbing and repainting to make it good as new. Megatron noted that as potential for punishment since, apparently, the Autobots frowned upon physical penalties. If you asked Megatron, a quick backhand made unruly mechs reconsider their behaviors far faster than a stint in the brig.

But it wasn't wholly his decision to make anymore. He had to share that responsibility with Rodimus. Pah. As though Rodimus and responsibility were two words that even belonged in the same sentence.

A scrabble of claws over the floor was the first indication Megatron was not alone. He heard a shout, felt a blast of irritation, and he looked up from his datapad a second before a body struck him in the chestplate. He cycled his optics as it immediately dropped to the ground in a heap, leaving not so much as a scrape behind.

Megatron arched an orbital ridge as he looked down at his attacker. It was an Insecticon. A very small, obviously underdeveloped Insecticon. And it was slowly climbing to its claws, looking as though it had rattled its processor.

"Don't kill him!"

Megatron looked up to find an Autobot charging toward him, energy field reading frantic, but no weapons on display. "Him?" Megatron asked, one pede nudging the Insecticon and watching it hunker down as it looked up at him, aft wiggling.

"He was being friendly," the yellow Autobot said, skidding to a halt a fair distance away from Megatron but close enough to intervene should Megatron decide to stomp the pest at his pedes. "Kind of."

"Friendly," Megatron repeated. He peered at the other mech, feeling as though he should recognize him but not sure from where.

The Insecticon crept closer, sniffing at his pede, antennae waving as its multiple optics brightened with something that might be considered happiness, for a fully-sparked mech.

"We're still learning not to jump on other mechs," the yellow Autobot said with something like a stern look the Insecticon's direction. "Bob, come here!"

Megatron fought back a grin as the Insecticon ignored his master, still sniffing about Megatron's pedes. "An interesting name," he commented and then scanned his datapad. Ah, there was an Insecticon listed here, belonging to an Autobot named Sunstreaker.

That particular designation was familiar. The Autobots truly would forgive anything, wouldn't they?

"I've been told I lack for creativity," Sunstreaker said, relaxing a little now that Megatron wasn't projecting an intent to maim.

"What does he find fascinating about my pedes?" Megatron asked, not uncomfortable, just baffled.

"I wish I knew." Sunstreaker ex-vented loudly and strode forward, grabbing the Insecticon by the collar fairing and jerking it backward. "Sorry. It won't happen again. I hope."

Bob made a chittering noise, straining against his master's grip, body wriggling in a way that was almost... cute.

"I think he's more likely to damage himself than me," Megatron said, but he waved the Autobot on anyway. He had an inspection to complete, after all. "Good luck. It seems you have your hands full."

"I do." Sunstreaker tried to pull Bob away, but it was futile at best. "Sir, if you could..." He gestured with his helm, down the hall.

Sir. What an interesting term to hear coming from an Autobot. Megatron couldn't decide if he approved or it unsettled him. Either way, the request was clear. Easier for Megatron to make himself scarce first than for Sunstreaker to try and haul Bob away.

And so he did, more than aware of the optics that watched him go. Megatron consulted his datapad, making a notation, and wondered if any other members of his crew were anything like Sunstreaker and his pet and their previous solitary captain.

He'd heard the rumors, that most members of the_ Lost Light_'s crew were less than sane, and now, he was beginning to think those rumors had weight.

This was sure to be a long, long quest.

* * *

><p>an: I am becoming more and more fascinated with IDW canon so expect to see more diving into this universe. I am especially taken with the what happened after Dark Cybertron and all the possibilities that are presented with Megatron being on the Lost Light. :)

Reviews are always welcome and appreciated.


	77. Captaincy, IDW, Megatron and Rodimus

**Title: Captaincy**

**Characters: Megatron, Rodimus, Optimus Prime**

**Universe: MTMTE, post-Dark Cybertron**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: spoilers**

**Description: Megatron is not amused. **

* * *

><p>"I think it's for the best," Optimus Prime had said. "You'll be sharing the captaincy as well. Just to allay the concerns of all parties involved."<p>

Megatron, in yet another miracle of miracles, had agreed. Clearly, something in the universe was out of alignment. He never imagined the day he would agree with Optimus Prime.

And therein lay his folly.

"You," he said, staring at his co-captain and unable to ignore the pit of disgust churning through his internals.

Rodimus offered a somewhat awkward grin. "Me," he confirmed with a nod. "Oh, and Ultra Magnus will be with us. But you already knew that."

Megatron cycled a ventilation, clenched his hands into a tight fist before loosing them. "You," he repeated, and no small wonder Optimus had scuttled out of the room at first chance. "You are the captain of this vessel."

"It was my idea," Rodimus said, folding his arms over his chestplate as he looked up at Megatron. "So yeah, I'm the captain."

Megatron's mouth opened and then closed again. His optics cycled down and he half-turned away from Rodimus, activating his comm.

"Optimus, I am not amused," he said, making no effort to keep the conversation quiet.

The Prime's answer came swiftly. "Neither am I. But you asked for the Knights of Cybertron and this is your only option to find them. Either work with Rodimus or sit here in a cell hoping that Rodimus succeeds."

Megatron ground his denta. "This is cruel and unusual punishment, Prime."

Optimus had the gall to laugh at him over the comm. Laugh! "I think you'll survive. And if you're lucky, you'll return with your sanity intact. Optimus out."

The comm closed before Megatron could form another retort and he cursed subvocally. This had to be Prime's petty revenge.

"Are you done whining to Optimus or can we talk about this like fully-matured mechs?" Rodimus asked, arching an orbital ridge.

Megatron huffed a ventilation. So said the mech with flames painted across his chassis and a list of complaints from some of his subordinates.

"Talk?" Megatron repeated.

"Well, we could just wing it." Rodimus shrugged, embellished shoulders rising and falling. "But obviously that hasn't worked out for me so far. Better that we decide here and now how we're going to do this. And for the record, I'm not too keen on sharing captaincy with a mass murderer either but I don't have much of a choice."

Optimus Prime's orders trumped all others, apparently, even for Rodimus-not-a-Prime and former Decepticon warlords.

Argh.

Megatron rubbed his forehelm, feeling a processor ache in the midst of developing. At least he'd left Starscream behind on Cybertron.

Thank Primus for that.

* * *

><p>an: Ah, Megatron. Thank the universe for those small favors. :D

Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.


	78. A Little Less Conversation, G1, OptxWJ

**Title: A Little Less Conversation **

**Characters: OptimusxWheeljack**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: frisky!Optimus **

**Description: Wheeljack is talking but Optimus is more than a little distracted. **

* * *

><p>Wheeljack was talking. His hands were waving, gesticulating wildly. His indicators lit up in fits and bursts of bright colors. His frame language was animated, excited. Clearly, he'd had some kind of scientific breakthrough.<p>

Wheeljack was talking but all Optimus heard was scientific babble. Something about converters and percentages and transmorphers and...

Wheeljack had a really nice paintjob. Attractive, come to consider it. A white base coat, clean lines of green and red. His alt-mode was suitable for his base frame, giving him angles in all the right places. And that spoiler! It twitched, up and down, like faux wings, with every excited gesture.

It occurred to Optimus that it had been a long time since he'd had the pleasure of enjoying Wheeljack in the berth. Both he and Perceptor had been cloistered in the lab as of late, buried in the particulars of their experiments. It had been just as long since Optimus had enjoyed Perceptor as well, but Wheeljack was the one presently in front of him. He would have to hunt down Perceptor at a later date.

"Optimus? Are you listening?"

Optimus pushed to his pedes. "I understood the gist of it," he said and tilted his helm to the side. "Can I help that you are so distracting?"

Wheeljack's indicators glow a soft pink. "You're supposed to be paying attention to me. I was telling you about the diaclonic converter which you specifically ordered details regarding last week."

Oh, right. Somewhere, Optimus did remember giving that order, mostly because as brilliant as Wheeljack and Perceptor could be, it helped to give them boundaries. Hold the reins, so to speak.

Hmm. Reins. Now wasn't that an image? Optimus' engine revved. He wondered if Wheeljack were up for a little... adventure?

"All right," said the engineer, planting his hands on his hips as he gave Optimus a long look. "You've got that gleam in your optic and I know my babbling wasn't that enticing. What gives?"

Optimus chuckled. "On the contrary. Your enthusiasm was quite tempting."

"Oh." Understanding dawned as Wheeljack's field hummed with contemplation before flaring with interest. "_Oh_."

Ah, speechless. It was quite the good look on Wheeljack, though watching him in full animation was equally endearing.

Optimus' battlemask slid open as he approached the engineer, one hand cupping Wheeljack's face to gently drag his thumb across Wheeljack's ever-necessary blast mask. "Yes, _oh_," he said, letting a purr fill his vocals. "Do you have something pressing in the lab to attend or are you free for the evening?"

"I'm free," Wheeljack said, tone thick with desire as his field opened up to Optimus, blithely seeking to connect. "I'm definitely free. And even if I wasn't, I am now."

"Good." Optimus' harmonics echoed the arousal trickling through his lines. "Because I believe you and I are due some quality time together."

Wheeljack's cooling fans all ticked on in tandem, the only response Optimus received as he once again, made Wheeljack speechless.

* * *

><p>an: Frisky!Optimus is quite fun to write. Hee.

Reviews are welcome. Thanks for reading!


	79. Apology, Bay, OptimusxMegatron

**Title: Apology**

**Characters: OptimusxMegatron, Ironhide**

**Universe: Bayverse, pre-films**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: twincest, spark merge **

**Description: Eventually, all is forgiven. **

* * *

><p><p>

It started with a cube of energon, placed on the edge of his desk and slowly pushed across the surface until it nudged his knuckle.

Megatron, mouth pressed to a tight line, glanced at the energon, reading the inherent start of an apology. That it was his favorite blend was a matter of course. That it was much needed at the moment was also true.

That he didn't want to take it – and the apology – twisted at his spark.

He ignored the cube, and the mech who had offered it, and continued to concentrate on his datapad. While the details of the recent treaty with the Hentafloraxians wasn't the most stimulating of reading material, it was important. Megatron had to sign off on this draft before he could even consider sending it off to Optimus and his team of soft-sparked councilors.

The silence in the room grew. Megatron, displaying more patience than anyone gave him credit for, waited. He counted the beats, listened to the sounds of another mech's systems, one he knew more than intimately, and waited.

There was a soft sound, one of regret, before Megatron was left alone.

Apology unaccepted fragger, he thought, and concentrated on his work.

0o0o0

"How long are ya gonna keep up this silent war?" Ironhide asked as they walked down the hall from one conference room to another.

Megatron grunted a noncommittal reply.

"Ya know he didn't mean it," Ironhide continued, ever on Optimus' side even though he was supposed to be Megatron's mech.

"It's not a matter of intent. It's that he thinks he can so easily gain my forgiveness with a few petty gifts," Megatron retorted, careful to keep his snarl in check. His growling engine gave his anger away.

Ironhide made a thoughtful noise. "I think it's more likely that yer just stubborn."

There was no denying that. "Don't you have better things to do than focus on us?"

"Not when yer my boss and Optimus is my friend," Ironhide said with a grin and a roll of his shoulders. "I'm invested in both of ya."

Megatron harrumphed. "I'm not going to make it easy for the bratling."

Ironhide, at least, chuckled. "Ya never do, my lord."

0o0o0

They shared a berth but Megatron was content to recharge in the receiving room, sprawled uncomfortably across the large but torturous couch. If Optimus thought interfacing would fix his error, he was grossly mistaken. And Megatron had successfully ignored all advances for the past decaorn.

Megatron, unlike many others, was immune to that pathetic look. Oh, he was sure Optimus was sincere but he didn't understand. And until he did, Megatron was going to continue to ignore every attempt at apology.

Until Optimus, craftier than many suspected of the "adorably innocent Prime" started to play dirty.

Their bond hummed, tangible despite how tightly Megatron locked down on his end. He could feel Optimus, his brother's desire and longing. He heard the crooning, not audible, but a presence through his spark. Promise was inherent in those soft pulses.

Megatron had expected this tactic and hardened himself to it. But as usual, he was not prepared for the continued efforts of his brother. His own spark became traitorous, telling his processor to forgive and forget, for surely being beside Optimus was much better than in another room.

Megatron growled to himself. In the end, it always came down to their bond. And it was why Optimus won their arguments more often than not. It was, without a doubt, unfair.

He pushed himself off the couch, making a point to stomp as loudly as possible. He would not forgive without a fight, frag it.

The door slid open silently, not bothering to reflect his ire, and Optimus lay there on the berth, in the dark, his optics lit blue and inviting.

"I am not forgiving you," Megatron snarled as he stormed into the room, his field an agitated whirl of outrage and offense.

Optimus met him with patience and love and beneath it all, a barely concealed thread of amusement. "I am aware," he said, and he held out his arms, tempting enough that Megatron hated himself for wanting to give in. "Though I am sorry."

"No, you're not," Megatron grumbled, sliding into those arms and doing his level best to ignore the feeling of satisfaction that his spark purred as their plating came into contact. Behind the safety of Optimus' chestplate, his spark surged with recognition and Megatron's own danced in happy approval.

"I regret your anger with me," Optimus conceded, field wrapping around Megatron and guiding him deeper into the embrace. "But not my actions."

Playing politics as usual.

"Some orn I will break this hold you have on me," Megatron said, nuzzling his way into the vulnerable plating of Optimus' throat. "And then I will, at last, have won an argument."

Optimus chuckled, the sound vibrating against Megatron's lips. "If that should happen, brother, then I will lose my only advantage."

"Seems like a fair trade to me." His chestplates unlocked, eager to join with the spark that had once been part of his own.

Optimus purred, his own plates parting with a spill of pale blue light.

And in that moment, when their sparks met, all was forgiven and anger forgotten. Such was the way of things.


	80. Berthwarmer, IDW, Cyclonus and Tailgate

**Title: Berthwarmer**

**Characters: Cyclonus, Swerve, Whirl, Cyclonus **

**Universe: MTMTE**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Does Whirl count as a warning? **

**Description: All Cyclonus wanted was some peace and quiet. **

* * *

><p><p>

"So. Is it true?"

Cyclonus twitched, leveling Swerve with an even look.

"Is what true?" he demanded, though he had a fair notion of what Swerve demanded to know.

"That, uh, well, you know." Swerve grinned, shuffling from foot to foot.

"No. I do not. Are you going to give me my order?"

"Sure, sure."

Swerve wandered away, presumably to retrieve Cyclonus' drink. He welcomed the moment of peace, but it was only an invitation for someone else to take up the mantle.

"Now, I'm not one for gossip," Whirl said, a complete lie as he swaggered up to join Cyclonus at the bar. "But I gotta know. An aft that cute has to be a good little berthwarmer, yeah?"

Cyclonus didn't even like Whirl on a good day. Today? Didn't come close to mediocre. He twitched. He cycled through a series of responses before opting for silence. Best not to encourage Whirl lest he follow through with the urge to stab him through the spark.

Fortunately, Swerve returned with his drink, sparing Cyclonus the need to further discourage Whirl.

"C'mon Swerve, get the truth outta this guy," Whirl said, leaning against the bar, optic bright as though he's already on the short path to overcharge.

Swerve shrugged. "Been trying. But you know how it is." He leaned closer, conspiratorial. "I could make it on the house?"

Cyclonus made a low noise of disgust and turned away. There were reasons he preferred to be alone and two of them were currently whispering to each other behind his back.

Which is of course when Tailgate decided to walk into the bar, his visor immediately brightening upon sight of Cyclonus. Didn't he realize that it was reactions like that which made mechs talk?

Of course, he didn't. Because Tailgate could be a liar (and they'd had many a discussion about that) but he was also stupidly honest about a lot of things and that dichotomy was frustrating.

"Cyclonus!" If Tailgate had lips he'd be grinning from audial to audial. He lifted a hand in a wave, bouncing from foot to foot, shaking that "utterly fraggable aft" to put it in Whirl terms.

And Cyclonus bit back a sigh. He heard giggling behind him, for what else would he call that noxious noise? And he felt the optics watching him.

How was it Tailgate could always make him feel so exposed with a simple action?

"I thought you were on shift," Cyclonus said, devoting most of his attention to the lively minibot.

"I traded with Hound," Tailgate replied, and then hurried to add, "Because he asked me to not because I asked him. I remember what you said."

Cyclonus almost buried his face in his palm because while Tailgate had been quiet, he was rather certain that the two busybodies behind him had heard that statement and completely misconstrued it. He had only meant for Tailgate to stand more on his own.

"And you looked like you were leaving anyway," Tailgate continued, twisting his fingers together. "So I'll just get a drink and chat with Swerve and you can go do what you're going to do and it'll all work out."

Except that the last thing Cyclonus wanted Tailgate to do was chat with Swerve. Because Whirl was still here and Swerve wasn't above plying Tailgate with free engex to get him to talk about the questions Cyclonus wasn't answering.

"I was going to the oil reservoir," Cyclonus murmured. "You are welcome to join me."

It was worth it, he thought, to see the joy in Tailgate's visor, despite his efforts to restrain himself. Even if Cyclonus felt a tad bit guilty as the offer was made out of self-preservation.

"Okay! Let me just-"

"You can have mine," Cyclonus said, knowing that if Tailgate got within feet of Swerve, the questions would begin. He moved forward, relieved when Tailgate fell into step beside him and Cyclonus consciously eased his pace so that the shorter mech could keep up.

"Have fun!" Swerve called out after them.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Whirl added with a cackle.

Cyclonus ignored them. Tailgate looked a little pink around his visor. Cyclonus bit back another sigh.

There'd be no end to the rumors now. Strange how little he seemed to mind.


	81. Control, G1, SunnyxSides

**Title: Control **

**Characters: SunstreakerxSideswipe**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: twincest, dom/sub overtones **

**Description: Sideswipe knelt on the floor, bound and blinded, but he had never felt safer.**

* * *

><p><p>

Sunstreaker had thought of everything. He must have been planning this for weeks. Not that Sideswipe would have guessed given his neutral expression and even tone.

There was padding beneath his knees. Used to discomfort, Sideswipe didn't need it, but he appreciated the consideration.

The cloth wrapped around his helm kept him blinded. A simple sensory block would have been equally effective. But the soft brush of Sunstreaker's fingers against his facial plating and the careful manner in which he tied the knot was far more intimate. It made Sideswipe shiver, internals running hot.

Same with his wrists. Stasis cuffs would have been easier, stronger. But the cotton wrapped around his wrists was somehow better. Symbolic even. Proof positive that he was on his knees by choice, not threat.

Sideswipe's vents cycled faster.

He knelt on the floor, bound and blinded, but he had never felt safer.

"Terms?" Sunstreaker asked from somewhere in front of Sideswipe, close enough to touch if Sideswipe lifted his arms, but he knew better.

"Everything you're willing to give me," Sideswipe answered, almost ritual phrasing in an act that had become more commonplace as the war stripped hope from them.

"Hmm." There was a tinge of appreciation across their bond. "And if I go too far?"

"I'll ask you to stop." Not that he'd ever needed to. Their bond and lifelong understanding caused trust on a quantum level. But that option still needed to be available and that Sunstreaker never forgot only deepened the trust that Sideswipe gave him.

"And if you need a moment?"

"I'll ask you to wait."

"Good," Sunstreaker purred.

He shifted his weight with a soft hiss of hydraulics. He tapped something against his plating and Sideswipe's spark shivered. It could have been any manner of toy and Sideswipe's imagination was ripe with possibilities. The bond was giving nothing away.

A hand cupped Sideswipe's face, thumb stroking his cheek arch. "And who am I, Sideswipe?"

He licked his lips, engine settling into a quiet purr.

"Sunstreaker."

"But tonight?" Sunstreaker prompted, ex-venting heat against Sideswipe's frame.

He trembled. "Master." It was little more than a murmur.

"Louder."

The moan escaped him before he could consider holding back. "_Master_."

Sunstreaker's approval burst like fireworks through their bond.

"That I am," Sunstreaker said with a lingering caress of his fingers. "And now I'll show you why."

Sideswipe trembled.


	82. Recruit, G1, Skyfire and Megatron

**Title: Recruit**

**Characters: Skyfire, Megatron**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: None really **

**Description: Skyfire wants nothing to do with Megatron's proposition. **

* * *

><p><p>

He wondered how soon the gossip would start.

Skyfire was used to being the subject of rumor. Given his unique introduction to the Autobots, he wasn't surprised either. He could handle it. For the most part.

This, however, could ruin him.

His wings twitched, restless energy pouring through his circuits. He wanted to fly, needed to fly. He couldn't fly.

It was safer inside the Ark. Within the volcano. Underground.

Skyfire shuddered.

He wasn't a Seeker. He didn't have the same claustrophobic tendencies. Yet, the sensation of being trapped would not let him be.

His comm pinged.

Skyfire startled hard enough to fumble his test tube, sending it crashing to the floor. His spark raced as he muttered a curse and crouched to begin cleaning up the tiny shards. Thankfully, it had been empty.

His comm pinged.

It was an older frequency, one he stopped using after his ill-fated stint with the Decepticons. Only two mechs knew this frequency and only one dared to use it after Skyfire officially joined the Autobots.

Skyfire denied the request as he'd done a hundred times before. They were getting more frequent as of late. More eager. More desperate.

Skyfire debated with himself again, now that his concentration was thoroughly demolished.

In the beginning, he'd been confused. Then flattered. Now, each day filled him with dread. Each battle sent his spark into paroxysms of fear, desperate to avoid the one mech who could undo all his hard work.

Megatron had under his command at least a dozen capable Seekers. For some reason, he'd decided that an Autobot (re: Neutral) shuttle, would make the perfect Air Commander. Despite the fact Skyfire had no real military experience. It made no logical sense. Not that Megatron had ever been accused of operating under logic.

Skyfire did not know why, only that he'd seen Starscream less and less during battle. He'd noticed the tricolored Seeker was battered and drab. Clearly, all was not right aboard the Nemesis but Skyfire did not want to get in the middle of that mess.

Skyfire had no interest in Megatron, his proposition, or leadership of the aerial forces of the Decepticons. Repeated refusals had been met with amusement. Megatron was persistent. He was charismatic. He was armed with near-convincing flattery.

And Skyfire was only a mech.

He couldn't tell the Autobots. Not when half of them expected he would return to the Decepticons, convinced he was still in love with Starscream. Or when another third believed Mirage to be a traitor despite his millennia of loyal service. Red Alert was suspicious. Prowl might wager it was in their best interest to keep Skyfire under constant surveillance.

Optimus, even given his propensity for faith, might find himself swayed by his officers.

No, Skyfire could not tell them. He could tell no one.

He could only sit in the silence of his quarters, waiting for the next ping.


	83. One More Sad Song, IDW, BlasterxJazz

a/n: I'm not terribly familiar with Jazz and Blaster in IDW so they might be a bit OOC. But I was in the mood for fluffy-angst and that's what's here. Also, apologies in advance for the title.

**Title: One More Sad Song**

**Universe: IDW, MTMTE**

**Characters: BlasterxJazz**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Angst, Fluff, maybe OOC**

**Description: Because Blaster can't stay and Jazz won't go. **

**For tf_rare_pairing weekly prompt of Jazz/Blaster, before you go**

* * *

><p>"So. You're going."<p>

The words are not a question. There is no judgment in the neutral tone. Just a statement of fact.

"You can still come along," Blaster says, tilting his helm back into the spray of cleanser, a luxury as of late. "Plenty of action and adventure. Didn't you tell me you were getting bored?"

Dust and grime sluices down his frame, swirling into a drain that would collect said cleanser for recycling. With Cybertron in it's current state, they can't afford to waste anything, not even the so-called waste.

The hands on his back still. "Aren't you tired of it?"

Blaster lowers his helm, giving the question the sericous consideration it deserves. He can read the genuine disquiet in his partner's vocals.

"I don't know how to do it," he finally admits at length, because this is what has been nagging at him all along. Why he's felt so uncomfortable here in the ruins of Iacon despite having Jazz by his side. "And I won't figure that out by staying here either. Besides, I like Roddy."

A noncommittal noise and Jazz's hands pick up their steady sweeping. "And you don't like Prowl," he says shrewdly.

"Who does?" Blaster retorts, his lips quirking into a grin.

Jazz chuckles and Blaster joins him. It's an inside joke, really. One that probably all of the Autobots would share, except for the mech in question. Prowl probably doesn't have a sense of humor.

"What about Bee?"

Blaster cycles a ventilation and turns to face Jazz, something in him aching to stay, though the urge passes within moments. He meant what he said.

"I like him just fine," Blaster says, cupping Jazz's face and stroking a thumb over the curve of his jaw. "But you know he can't keep this under wraps for long."

Jazz's visor flashes brighter. "At least he's trying."

Blaster shrugs. "True. But you know, there's a lot of universe left to see and who better to spread the word then 'the Voice,' eh?"

"You just like to hear yourself talk." The back of Jazz's hand raps gently on his chestplate, chiming against the solid windscreen.

"Ha, ha." Blaster rolls his optics, and lets his hand drop from Jazz. "Come on. We're wasting cleanser."

Jazz's field lightly touches his, something like apology simmering in it. "So?"

"You're going to make Bumblebee give another speech about conservation and politeness and sharing and all that slag." Blaster leans forward, hitting the panel and shutting off the spray.

Jazz shakes his helm, grabbing a cloth and giving it a quick run over his frame, black and white gleaming in the pale overhead light. "Poor mech. He's not so good at the speechifying. Another reason he needs you to stick around."

"Mmm. Nice try." Blaster is not so dim that he doesn't hear the implicit plea. Jazz would never outright ask him to change his mind or manipulate him into doing so, but he would continue to offer other options.

Just in case.

"Had to give it a shot." Jazz tosses the used towel into a corner. "Got a few others up my sleeve."

Blaster shakes his helm and closes the distance between them, ignoring the dampness of his own armor as he drags Jazz into an embrace. It's always a risk to hold Jazz. Sometimes, he squirms free because he can't stand the closeness. Other times, he melts into an embrace as though it's his last connection to sanity.

This is somehow between the two extremes.

Silence settles until Blaster tunes himself into the music of Jazz's frame, the whump of ventilations, and the more distant beat of his spark.

"Won't be the same without you around," Jazz finally says, his tone carefully light.

Blaster's own spark stutters. "I'm only a comm away."

"Don't you die either."

"Have you _seen _the crew manifest?" Because Blaster has and it's a formula for trouble, a Wheeljack-sized explosion.

"And my point is made."

Despite himself, Blaster laughs softly. Jazz is right, of course. There's no guarantee Blaster's going to come back alive. Just as there is no guarantee Blaster will return to a united Cybertron. Or even one that's been partially restored. The entire political balance could implode while they are gone.

He supposes those are the chances he has to take. Because Blaster can't stay and Jazz won't go and sometimes, a compromise can't be made.

"You staying?" Jazz asks, his vocals echoing in the washrack, silent save for their ventilations and the drip-drip of a leaking nozzle.

Blaster strokes a hand down Jazz's back, memorizing the sleek feel of his plating, and storing such memories for later. "Until I have to go," he says.

It's all the concession he can make. And he hopes, some miracle of Primus might occur, and it will turn into the best choice he could have made. For both of them.

* * *

><p>an: Catching up my posting here, a few more updates to come. :)


	84. Conversational Incentive, G1, TracksxBla

**Title: Conversational Incentive  
>Universe: G1<strong>  
><strong>Characters: BlasterxTracks<strong>  
><strong>Rating: T<strong>  
><strong>Description: Tracks is on duty. Blaster just called to say hello.<br>**

**For the tf-rare-pairing prompt "Tracks/Blaster, G1 or IDW, speaking in tongues, trick or treat"**

* * *

><p>"Busy, my love?"<p>

The purr spills into his private line, stirring Tracks from the monotony of third-shift monitor duty. That it first comes across as French, his processor automatically translating, makes it all the more enticing.

"For you? Never," Tracks responds in kind, careful to conceal his pleased smile from the others sharing his shift.

Blaster's amused chuckle bubbles over the line, stirring Tracks' spark. "Red Alert's not on shift, I take it?" he asks, this time in English.

"No, my dear. It's Jazz." Tracks bites back his own laugh. The game of pet names has become a running joke between them.

"Good," Blaster purrs, once again in French.

Realization slowly dawns. Tracks lips curl. Ah, so it's to be one of _those_ conversations.

He shifts in his chair. "Did you have something in mind?"

"Just a chat." Blaster's vocals are warm, like spiced energon, and the language is Raoul's, a delicate caress to Tracks' finely tuned audials. "I know you're bored. I thought I'd call, give you something better to focus on."

Tracks cycles a ventilation, steals a glance around the command center, but no one's paying him a whit of attention. Yet.

"I _am_ on duty," he reminds his mischievous lover. Not that it's stopped Blaster before.

"I know. Isn't that half the thrill of it?"

"Not if it gets me brig time."

Blaster hums across the line. "I'll make it worth your while," he murmurs, words laced with promise, glossa rolling at him in the language of love.

Tracks shivers. He stares at the monitors. He tries to focus but all he can see are blurs. He's thinking of the last time Blaster pinned him to berth, inciting him to overload by words alone, purring over his spark, every sound vibration stirring him higher and higher.

"You always do," he replies belatedly, perhaps more delayed than is socially acceptable for a conversation.

His field flares in remembrance before Tracks can rein it in. The images, now, are brighter, sharper, more engaging. He shifts in the chair, it creaking beneath him, but all he can picture is the wicked promise no doubt in Blaster's optics.

Thank Primus Jazz is the one on shift. It'll make it only slightly less embarrassing when Tracks completely loses control.

"I thought so," Blaster says, far too smug, and then, because he's as mischievous as he is tempting, he adds, "What are you wearing, sweetheart?" and Tracks can't decide if he's going to laugh or wheeze out a ventilation.

He ends up doing both, prompting Jazz to ask if he's all right and Tracks to offer a reassurance that's anything but.

"My shift ends in two hours," Tracks tartly informs his lover, amusement warring with the arousal Blaster has stirred in him. "You will pay for that."

"Promises, promises, dear spark," Blaster sings, smug, before he disconnects the private line, leaving Tracks with a heated spark, rising charge, and boring monitors.

Fortunately, Tracks has two hours to think of a suitable punishment. One they will both enjoy very, very much.

* * *

><p>an: I pairing I happen to enjoy and don't write often enough. *grins*

Reviews, as always, are welcome and appreciated.


	85. Draw Me, G1, BluexSunny

**Title: Draw Me**

**Characters: BluestreakxSunstreaker, Sideswipe**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: Nothing objectionable**

**Description: Bluestreak makes a bargain for some berth-time.**

* * *

><p>"Hey, Sunny."<p>

He didn't have any time to growl a protest at the loathed nickname before Bluestreak vaulted the back of the couch and landed neatly in Sunstreaker's lap.

Sunstreaker growled, scrambling to keep from dropping his datapad and flailing like a moron. "What?" he demanded, though it was difficult to remain tetchy when Bluestreak's field vibrated with glee.

Bluestreak draped his arms over Sunstreaker's shoulders, snuggling closer as he grinned. "Draw me like one of your French girls."

Sunstreaker blinked. "Uh... what?"

Giggling from the doorway was all the evidence Sunstreaker needed as to the perpetrator who instigated this sudden and perplexing statement.

Bluestreak's own mouth curved more. "I said..." He wriggled enticingly, metal sliding on metal with inviting vibrations as his voice dropped to a purr. "Draw me like one of your French girls."

"What does that even mean?" Sunstreaker demanded.

In the doorway, Sideswipe collapsed into gasping laughter, more amused by his so-called prank than seemed logical.

Bluestreak leaned in, his helm sliding against Sunstreaker's in a delicate caress that didn't so much as mark his paint. "It means whatever you want it to mean, lover," he said, field vibrating with amusement as much as desire.

Sunstreaker sighed, resigning himself to being the object of their amusement. "You should know better than to help my brother's schemes by now," he said, setting his datapad aside to rest his hand on Bluestreak's hips. "What did you get out of it?"

Bluestreak nipped at a helm vent and Sunstreaker very carefully did not shudder. "The berth to ourselves. All night. Sideswipe will be elsewhere."

"Really now?" Sunstreaker's irritation vanished. "I think we got the better end of the deal."

Bluestreak chuckled, his hips performing a shimmy that had to be illegal. "I thought so, too."

"The look on your face was priceless," Sideswipe said, picking himself up from the floor only to drape himself on the back of the couch.

"You are a moron," Sunstreaker informed him and returned his attention to his lover, whose engine was now purring with invitation. "You're not on shift?"

"Not anytime soon. Which means I have plenty of time to frag you into the berth." Bluestreak's doorwings fluttered, his frame emanating heat.

"I like the sound of that." Sunstreaker's right hand drifted lower, giving a pat to Bluestreak's aft. "You just have to get rid of my brother."

"Easy." Bluestreak grinned before he looked at Sideswipe. "I'm cashing in. Shoo."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Sideswipe pulled off a half-sparked salute and made an exit, but not without another laugh to himself.

Idiot.

"Now," Bluestreak said, attention returning to Sunstreaker. "Where were we?"

"Right about here, I think." Sunstreaker said and pulled him in for a kiss.

* * *

><p>an: pretty sure this joke has been done before but I couldn't help myself. I had to put my spin on it.

Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated. :)


	86. Can I Keep Him, IDW, Nautica and Bob

**Title: Can I Keep Him?**

**Characters: Sunstreaker, Bob, Nautica, Chromia, Background Cybertronians**

**Universe: IDW post-Dark Cybertron **

**Rating: PG**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: Bob has a knack for making new friends. **

* * *

><p>Bob's habit of tackling anyone he considered 'friendly' had become so commonplace aboard the <em>Lost Light<em> that it didn't bother anyone anymore. Well, exact for the most hardaft among them, but Bob wouldn't have tackled them anyway. Or he would, just to be a nuisance and because it amused Bob to watch them curse and swear vengeance, but know better than to shoot.

After all, when Rodimus said "you are not allowed to shoot the Insecticon" then he frag well meant "you can't shoot the fragging Insecticon, idiot!" Blades learned that the hard way.

So when Bob took off between one moment and the next, Sunstreaker didn't give chase. He was already nursing a damaged hip and he'd been told in no uncertain terms to go easy on it and since he was well-accustomed to what it felt like to not have use of his legs, Sunstreaker was inclined to obey. He just watched Bob take off and lit up the comm network with the broad _watch out_ that everyone on the_ Lost Light_ had come to recognize as all the warning they'd get.

Sunstreaker followed the tracker he'd had Ratchet install on Bob (because the damn bug kept wandering when he wasn't supposed to and Sunstreaker got tired of sending out comms to track him down) and wondered who Bob tackled this time. He limped through crowds of mechs, some of them unfamiliar, some of them not, and right now, in the wake of whatever the frag that was (Metrotitans and Prowls and Constructions, Sunstreaker didn't even want to get started on comprehending that) Sunstreaker supposed it didn't matter.

They were all back at the same starting point.

Ahead of him, he heard a shout. The vocals weren't outright familiar, not that he knew all of the crewmembers that closely. He expected Bob to go after one of his favorites, Tailgate or Skids or Smokescreen or, weirdly enough, First Aid.

By the time Sunstreaker made it through the crowd, the shock had turned to laughter and something akin to giggling.

What Autobot with any respect for himself would giggle ?

And then he got his answer. He didn't know this Autobot, but apparently Bob did. Or at least he wanted to.

"Oh my. He's so cute!" More laughter.

Bob chirped, wriggled his aft, and tried to climb further into the lap of the purple Autobot. He was ecstatic as hands petted over his helm and his plating because everyone knew that he was a neglected bug who never received the attention he deserved.

Sunstreaker rolled his optics and folded his arms. He almost didn't have words, and an apology definitely wasn't among them.

"Nautica, that's an Insecticon!" another Autobot said before Sunstreaker could speak, sounding horrified, and the noise of weapons being engaged overrode the laughter.

Sunstreaker bristled.

"But he's friendly!" Nautica argued and Sunstreaker only belated recognized who she was. Her name had lit up the Autobot network recently. "Aren't you?"

Bob chirped again, optics big and bright and innocent. That look, right there, is pretty much the one that won him First Aid.

"See? Friendly!"

The other Autobot, blue and white, huffed a ventilation. "Yes. Until he bites your arm off."

"He doesn't bite," Sunstreaker said, limping closer and drawing Bob's attention. "Unless you aim a gun at him, that is." Brawn had learned that particular lesson. "Bob. Come here."

Bob chirred and hunkered down.

Sunstreaker revved his engine, letting the bug know he was serious.

"Aw, he doesn't want to," Nautica said, patting Bob on the helm again. "Can I keep him?"

Sunstreaker absolutely did not panic. "No!" he snapped just as the blue Autobot sneered, "Absolutely not."

Nautica cycled her optics. The blue Autobot checked her blaster again.

Sunstreaker performed a systems check. Had that been an alarmed shout? He would never admit it. "He's not for adopting," Sunstreaker added, lamely, and looked his bug in the optics. "Bob. Here. _Now_." The implied 'bad boy' lingered in his tone.

Bob obeyed, though not without dramatics. He climbed ever so slowly off Nautica's lap and slunked over to Sunstreaker, helm lowered and frame tucked close to his legs. His optics even dimmed. Primus. It would be irritating if it wasn't so fragging cute.

"I don't think I could have kept him anyway," Nautica said, getting up and brushing off her frame. She sounded disappointed.

"Honestly, Nautica. What would you do with an Insecticon?" the blue Autobot demanded, her frown disapproving.

Bob pressed against Sunstreaker's legs, every bit the dejected bug. He absently reached down, patting Bob on the helm.

"You said I need a hobby," Nautica countered, shrugging. "And one that wasn't quantum mechanics."

"I didn't mean for you to adopt a glitched piece of Decepticon warfare!"

Sunstreaker was insulted on Bob's behalf. "Hey!" He bristled, reminded himself of his healing hip, and gritted his denta. "He's not glitched!"

"Of course he isn't." The blue Autobot's optics raked Sunstreaker up and down, measuring and then dismissing, before hooking Nautica's elbow and turning her away. "Come on. We have work to do."

Nautica sighed and waved back at them. "Duty calls. Goodbye, Bob."

He chirred at her.

"Traitor," Sunstreaker muttered.

Bob blinked at him.

"You always go for the shiny ones," Sunstreaker added, turning away from Nautica, her friend, and the now dispersing crowd they'd gathered. "With the pretty paint jobs."

Bob chirped as if to say 'well, duh' as he looked at his master.

Sunstreaker shook his helm. "Let's go," he said. "Maybe I can find some energon treats for you."

Bob's excited leap almost sent him sprawling. Stupid bug.

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><p>an: Bob is too cute. I must write him more.

As always, reviews are welcome and appreciated.


	87. Differences, G1, BlasterxTracks

**Title: Differences**

**Characters: BlasterxTracks**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: hints of sticky **

**Description: No one understands them. No one has to. **

* * *

><p>Tracks prefers to recharge on his front, which works out perfectly well for Blaster because there's nothing he enjoys more than the sight. Tracks' aft is a construction to be admired, which he tells his partner often.<p>

Blaster also enjoys trailing kisses down Tracks' backstrut, pausing to lave attention over his sensitive spoiler with teasing nips. He loves the way Tracks quivers, his aft pushing up, field leaking arousal.

It's Blaster's favorite position, to blanket Tracks from behind, his hands mapping every inch of perfectly polished plating. He loves to feel Tracks shuddering and writhing beneath him, the desperate clamp of his valve, the eager flutter of his winglets.

They don't recharge like that, of course. Because while Tracks likes to lay on his front, Blaster prefers to lay on his back, one arm propped under his helm.

It all works out for the best considering the narrowness of their berth. Tracks splays across Blaster's frame as though it's the most comfortable cushion, his helm pillowed on Blaster's dock.

He claims it's because Blaster runs hotter than normal mechs. Which is true. And Tracks enjoys the heat beneath him, their frames pressed and notched together, as if they belong.

It brings new significance to the phrase "opposites attract." Because while Blaster likes his energon violent and dark, gritty to the end with a taste that lingers, Tracks enjoys his better fresh and floaty, like drinking a ray of sunlight.

Tracks likes the quiet; Blaster likes to play his music so that it rattles the walls and makes his frame vibrate. He wants to feel the beat, down to the sensitive metal of his spark chamber, and when he sings along, it doesn't matter that he's out of tune. It matters that he loves doing it.

Tracks endures with an optic roll. But at least they can both agree on one thing: classic rock trumps all others.

They both hate the war and are resigned to it, indulging in what little pleasures they can scrape together around the violence and the terror and the underlying current of despair. They cling tighter to each other, even during the occasional argument that happens when two vibrant personalities inhabit the same space.

But there's little left that Blaster has to remind him of Cybertron. He has his cassettes and they are the best friends a mech could ask for. He has a new joy, all the tunes to be found on Earth. And he still has Tracks, lost and then found again, his partner in crime for all that matters.

Their relationship has never made sense to anyone and Blaster's long since learned that it doesn't have to. It only has to be what they want and need.

* * *

><p>an: This is one of those pairings that I don't see enough and wish I had more ideas so I could write them more. I'll have to give it a try.

As always, reviews are welcome and appreciated.


	88. Santa Baby, G1, SunnyxSides

a/n: A little out of season I know, but at the time I wrote it, it wasn't. lol Enjoy!

**Title: Santa Baby**

**Characters: SunstreakerxSideswipe, background Autobots**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: crack, twincest **

**Description: Sideswipe does a little dance. Sunstreaker is both impressed and amused. Jazz feels challenged. **

**Special thanks to fuzipenguin for the initial prompt. **

* * *

><p>When the opening refrains of the song spilled into the rec room, Sunstreaker knew who was to blame. He sighed, tucked his datapad away, and waited for the show to begin. Amusingly, he was not the only one who did so.<p>

Conversation died. The song got louder. All optics turned toward the open door. And Sideswipe sashayed in to an audience, just like the glitch surely wanted.

Thank Primus he didn't sing along to the cheerful, holiday song. But the twist and sway to his hips had to be illegal in several galaxies.

Sunstreaker planted a frown on his face, arched an orbital ridge, and pretended that he wasn't at all affected by the floor show. Even as it flounced his way.

Someone in the crowd snickered. It was probably Jazz, jealous that he hadn't thought of it first. Which only meant that next week, Jazz would show up with something even more outrageous. And Sunstreaker had a sudden image of a Christmas song dance off as his brother and Jazz battled to see who could get the most whistles.

And as usual, it would be Sideswipe's fault.

Sunstreaker sighed again, and folded his arms over his chestplate. Even as artfully polished red plating sparkled as it danced toward him. A red-plated aft shook his direction, teasing and taunting and Sunstreaker almost slapped it. But for Sideswipe, that wasn't much of a deterrent.

It was encouragement.

Sunstreaker tapped his pede as the song picked up in crescendo, as some human female crooned for Santa to bring her gifts. To "shimmy down her chimney." Pah. For a child's holiday, there was a looooot of subtext in their songs.

Or was that obvious-text?

Either way, Sideswipe capitalized on the tune by inviting himself onto Sunstreaker's lap, performing a languid slide of his frame that would have earned him a credit or several out on the streets of Kaon.

His frame hummed with heat, his field sliding teasingly over Sunstreaker's as if inviting him to play.

_You're an idiot_, Sunstreaker said over their bond, clenching his hands to keep from touching. The song aside, Sideswipe was as irresistible as he thought he was. No need to prove it in front of everyone.

_But you still want to touch me_, Sideswipe sang back, aft bobbing and weaving and dancing lewdly across Sunstreaker's lap. _Where's my ring? I want you to make an honest man out of me._

_There's nothing honest about you,_ Sunstreaker retorted, though his lips twitched.

Sideswipe pouted, a wholly attractive look. _You're so mean._

_And you're heavy. _With an almighty shove, Sunstreaker tossed his brother to the floor, perfectly timed to the last beat of the song.

He hit with an ungainly clatter and ungraceful flailing of his limbs. Sunstreaker broke into a grin and chuckled while Sideswipe's audience found it all highly amusing.

"Struck out again, Siders," Jazz said from the nearest edge of the crowd. And yeah, that was definitely a gleam of challenge in his visor.

"Maybe this time," Sideswipe admitted, picking himself up and making a show of brushing off his plating. He winked an optic. "But I've still got it."

Sunstreaker harrumphed, turning his helm away. _Dance for me later_, he said.

_I always do_, Sideswipe purred.

* * *

><p>an: Two more pieces to come. I'm trying not to spam your inbox.

Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.


	89. Family Matters, G1, Bluestreak and Stars

**Title: Family Matters**

**Characters: Starscream, Bluestreak **

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: author speculation and wild theories, implications of Bad Things **

**Description: The last Autobot Starscream expected to see walking into the brig was Bluestreak. **

**Special thanks to starfire201 for the initial prompt!**

* * *

><p>The last Autobot Starscream expected to see walking into the brig was Bluestreak. Not just because he knew the sniper was not a Special Ops mech, but because their shared history made the chances of him being granted a visit nonexistent. Either someone hadn't read Bluestreak's file, or they were more than aware and thought it could be used to their advantage.<p>

Starscream narrowed his optics, straightening on his cot. If they thought their pathetic attempts at mind games were going to work, they were sorely mistaken.

"Did they send you?" Starscream asked.

Bluestreak tilted his helm, optics dimming as he looked at Starscream through the energy bars. "Do you want the honest answer or a lie? Because we can play this two ways. I know which one I prefer, but you've always been something of a contradiction."

Starscream chuckled, flicking his wings out of the way so he could get comfortable. "Mm. I taught you well."

"Actually, there wasn't much you taught me that I remember." Bluestreak snagged a chair and brought it closer, making himself comfortable as though he planned to stay awhile. "That's what happens, I guess, when someone bombs your hometown and leaves you buried under the rubble for so long, that by the time rescuers dig you out, you're on the twilight of stasis lock, talking to ghosts."

Starscream did not flinch, but only because he'd gotten so much practice at concealing his reactions. "Uraya was supposed to be safe."

"And did you honestly think I would stay there? That I could?" Bluestreak's sensory panels, pale mockery of a Seeker's wings, go rigid. "It may have bordered Praxus, but I stood out enough that everyone could see me for what I was."

Starscream narrowed his optics. "You always were ashamed of your lineage."

"There wasn't much in it to give me pride." Bluestreak inclined his helm, the edge of his smirk all too familiar to Starscream. "Though I did learn a valuable lesson. Along with many, many valuable skills."

"In torture?" Starscream arched a brow.

Bluestreak waved a hand of dismissal. "If pain motivated you, Megatron would have a lot fewer issues with backstabbing usurpers. I could threaten to take away your wings, but we both know I won't do that. Frag, I could make any threat and you wouldn't believe me capable of doing it. The Autobots are too soft-sparked. They have principles. Morals. A line they refuse to cross."

Starscream pressed his lips together briefly. There was something to Bluestreak's tone that didn't sit right. "They didn't send you down here," he realized aloud. "And they don't know you're here either."

He glanced out of his cell, at the cameras that were always present in his previous stints in the brig, abbreviated though they were. How curious that they were no longer pointed his direction. Though wouldn't someone notice that inconsistency? Wouldn't their paranoid security director realize their very-important-prisoner was not under observation?

"No, they don't." Bluestreak pushed to his pedes, close enough to the energy bars that they snap at his plating. "I think, maybe, I have ten minutes before someone realizes something's wrong. It is just long enough."

"For what?" Starscream barked a laugh. He faced Megatron every day. What could an Autobot do to him that would be worse?

Bluestreak's optics flashed. "For you to remember that I'm not all Autobot," he growled. "And I know how to make you talk. Isn't that right, _Mother_?" The human term, somehow, was far more crass and insulting.

Starscream cycled a ventilation. He wouldn't call what coiled in his spark fear, but it certainly wasn't excitement either. Bluestreak had been taking great effort to shoot Starscream out of the sky for the entirety of the war. That he would choose now to verbally acknowledge their relationship bode nothing but ill tidings.

In this, Starscream would have preferred a visit from Jazz. At least the Special Ops commander was predictable.

There was no way, however, Starscream could have prepared himself for this.

* * *

><p>an: I'm sure I'm not the first person to speculate on Bluestreak's origins and I know I won't be last. But it was fun to do so.

Reviews are always welcome!


	90. In The End, TFP, Megatron

**Title: In The End**

**Characters: Megatron**

**Universe: Transformers: Prime, post-Predacons Rising**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: Spoilers **

**Description: What does a gladiator do with himself when the war has been lost and there is no one left to fight?**

* * *

><p>He has nowhere to go.<p>

He contemplates leaving Cybertron altogether, but even in its current state and on his own, Cybertron is still home.

How ironic that the Autobots have chosen to reside in Kaon. It is where Megatron would have gone but that option is not available to him. So he goes to Iacon. Where else is there for a failure?

The shower of sparks has slowed to a trickle, Megatron notices. He takes a perch on the highest structure left in Iacon and stares into the distance, toward Kaon. It doesn't escape his notice that the landscape between the two is littered with the scars of war. It will take more than the Omega Lock and Optimus' sacrifice to restore Cybertron to her former glory.

Megatron's shoulders sink.

He had done this. And what had it brought him?

In a way, he'd accomplished his goals. Cybertronians no longer suffer under Quintesson-based rule. They are no longer guided by strictures that confine them. There is no council or Prime to limit the heights a mech can reach.

And Megatron emerges lord of nothing, with a legacy of death and destruction and loss behind him. Much like his namesake.

He will not go down in history as a hero, but as a villain. A murderer who destroyed his planet for the sake of his own tyranny. That is how he will be remembered. Once, they had chanted his name because he was their champion. Now he has become equivalent to Unicron, not only metaphorically, but in frame. If they speak of him, it will be in whispers, hushed murmurings of fear.

Once, that fear would have been enough for Megatron. Not so much now.

Megatron's armor clamps tightly against his frame, foreign with the extra weight. He does not wish to look down at himself and see what he's become, how Unicron had twisted his frame to suit his own ends, so that Megatron only resembles a shadow of himself.

What use is there in perpetuating the Decepticon movement now? Total domination? What will that bring him in the end? When he's killed all who oppose him and all that are left are the most violent, the most twisted, and cruel. When he can't trust the mech beside him for fear of being stabbed in the backplate.

He wonders if it might have been madness. If his personal fury and struggle to survive had morphed his sanity into something that couldn't see the construction for its gears.

Orion had tried to tell him. And he had not listened. And then he became Optimus Prime and if there is one thing Megatron still knows to be true, he will not bow to a Prime. He will not open his audials to one.

He could never be friends with Optimus Prime. That is Orion's betrayal.

Megatron looks at his hands, the claws designed for rending, the talons for tearing. They are crafted for destruction.

What does a gladiator do with himself when the war has been lost and there is no one left to fight?

He pulls his hands into fists.

He supposes now he'll have to find out.

Orion would have been proud of him.

* * *

><p>an: I have a fondness for post s3 Prime fics if that isn't obvious yet. :)

Reviews are always welcome!


	91. Watching You, IDW, DriftxRodimus

**Title: Watching You **

**Characters: DriftxRodimus**

**Universe: MTMTE, pre-Overlord arc**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implications of sexual content**

**Description: Recharge is probably the only time Rodimus ever looks innocent. **

* * *

><p>Recharge is probably the only time Rodimus ever looks innocent. Drift snickers and then goes back to admiring.<p>

Rodimus has no shame in this or anything else. He sprawls across the berth, takes up every bit of space he can, and recharges with his mouth partially open. It's actually kind of cute.

He also recharges like a lump of lead.

Drift grins and traces the flames emblazoned on his captain's chestplate. It's a feather-light touch but any proper warrior ought to register it and burst online. A Decepticon certainly would. Rodimus doesn't.

Because he's that comfortable? Because he trusts Drift that much? Because no one ever taught him the value of constant awareness?

Who knows.

Drift's engine purrs softly, circuits still singing from that last overload. He could lay here until the next shift, just watching Rodimus recharge.

It's the only time Rodimus is truly quiet.

Drift's grin widens and he has to push down the laughter. Not that it would wake Rodimus anyway.

It's the trust, he decides as his light touches trace the edge of each armor plate and whisper over Rodimus' ventral armor. And that thought makes him bloom with warmth.

Rodimus trusts him. It's almost as intoxicating as the overload they just shared. It doesn't matter that _this_ isn't serious.

It matters that Drift can lie here next to Rodimus and both of them are at ease.

Until Rodimus twitches. "Stop staring," he murmurs without opening his optics. "You're gonna give me a complex."

Drift chuckles. "You already have one."

"Mmm. Good point." One hand flops out blindly and hooks on Drift's shoulder. "Recharge. That's an order."

He turns his head, pressing a kiss to the bright fingers. "Sir, yes, sir."

Rodimus' engine purrs his approval and his field slips back toward recharge, but his hand, Drift notices, stays on Drift's shoulder. Keeping him here. Where he wants to be anyway.

Trust, Drift thinks, is worth it all.

* * *

><p>an: I've really got to remember updating here. If you ever get tired of waiting for me to update here, you can always check my livejournal, tumblr or archive of our own account for the most recent updates.

I hope you enjoyed!


	92. Souvenirs,TFA, ArceexLockdown

**Title: Souvenirs**

**Characters: ArceexLockdown**

**Universe: Animated, post-S3**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: unhealthy relationship **

**Description: The war was forever and a day. It was time to move on. **

* * *

><p>This, Arcee realizes, is a very unhealthy relationship. One might even call it an obsession, but on who's end, she's not sure.<p>

She's not even sure how she got here. How she went from loathing to apathy to lust.

The war was forever and a day ago. But also just a blink. She remembers some of it vividly. Other parts are grainy like archival footage.

And she certainly hadn't expected that running across Lockdown on the aft end of the galaxy would have led to this.

This being the frantic push-pull of two frames. A hook lodged around one armor plate. Her fingers gripping a waist nearly narrower than her own. His plating as marked and heated as hers. Energon on her lips from a violent kiss, energon on his chin from her retaliation.

She is the one who challenges. He rises to the bait, purring at her with vocals that make her spark sing. Charge crackles between them, too much and too soon and not enough.

The aftermath leaves her panting and him dazed.

And she thinks that there are better ways to extract information, though certainly less pleasurable. Lockdown can only think to offer her a trophy. She refuses, unless he's willing to part with something he truly values.

"All I got is my spark, sweetheart," he purrs.

It might come to the point where Arcee takes it. But for now, she leaves him sprawled on the floor of his ship, knowing she'll be back. And he knows it too, if that blown kiss is any indication. He must have spent too much time on Earth.

In the streetlight, Arcee frowns at the scrapes in her paint. Souvenirs on their own, she thinks.

If only Ratchet could see her now. Wouldn't he be appalled?

Arcee smirks, rolls her shoulders, and takes on her altmode, engine purring. She's got a criminal to catch.

* * *

><p>an: I need to write both of these characters more. :)


	93. Never Said, TFP, RatchOptimus

**Title: Never Said**

**Characters: Ratchet, unrequited Ratchet/Optimus**

**Universe: TFP, post-Predacons Rising**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: Angst, spoilers maybe **

**Description: Regret is the hardest weight to bear. **

* * *

><p>It's a lot quieter now. Which isn't to say that Optimus was loud, but that the Autobots themselves are subdued.<p>

There is joy certainly, but it is tempered with loss.

Ratchet never expected Optimus to go before him. It is most unfair and no, Ratchet doesn't care that he sounds like a newspark saying such things.

He misses Optimus. He misses Orion Pax. He misses the both of them, apart and together, all of their facets.

What he wouldn't give to have either beside him again.

The days are duller. Ratchet does not return to Earth. The children are only painful reminders of everything he should've said and the mistakes he'd made.

He tries to keep busy. There is enough to repair or build that Ratchet is never short on work.

It doesn't help. It's not distraction enough.

Recharge is an exercise in futility. Not even the sight of Cybertron, alive and flush with new life, is enough consolation.

He keeps the Star Sabre. No one else wanted to claim it. No one else can use it. But it takes pride of place on the wall. Sometimes, Ratchet swears he can still feel Optimus within it.

Regret, Ratchet sighs, is the hardest weight to bear.

He spends most of his night-cycles alone, staring into the stars, remembering the first shower of newsparks. He often wonders if any of them are Orion reborn. Orion deserves a chance at life without the burdens of being Prime. Ratchet would leave all this behind just to enjoy that with him.

It's a fool's dream.

Eventually, Ratchet goes back to his medbay and lab and endless string of projects, each leaving him more lonely than before.

Eventually, he hopes, it will get easier. Eventually.

* * *

><p>an: Got lots to update but Imma try not to spam you guys and space it out. Stay tuned. And I wouldn't mind a review or two either. ;)


	94. Partners in Crime, Bluestreak and Skywar

**Title: Partners in Crime**

**Characters: Bluestreak, Skywarp**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: K+**

**Warnings: None **

**Description: Bluestreak has had it up to here with Sideswipe's shenanigans. **

* * *

><p>Bluestreak didn't know how many rules he was breaking. Prowl was going to be furious. Red Alert was going to fry several circuits.<p>

Optimus would probably approve though. And Ratchet most definitely. Ratchet would pat him on the back and offer him a whole bottle of aged high grade in celebration.

Because it was high-time someone taught Sideswipe a lesson. Punishment didn't work on him, not reprimands or brig-time or citations. Beating him up was not only not an option, but it didn't work either. And then you ran the risk of getting Sunstreaker on your aft.

But enough was enough. It was time Sideswipe got a taste of his own medicine.

And who better to help than Skywarp?

Skywarp, who'd seen Bluestreak cursing over the results of yet another prank, and _vopped _on down to investigate. That was, after he'd stopped laughing.

Orange glitter was not Bluestreak's color. Especially when it clogged up his vents and he kept sneezing bursts of it. Oh, he'd make Sunstreaker help scrub it off later as an apology, but that wasn't enough.

Bluestreak was tired of being the enduring, forgiving friend forcing a smile when he was the aft of every joke.

It wasn't funny anymore.

And Skywarp had rubbed his hands together in glee. He wanted some payback, too. Even if Bluestreak insisted on the non-lethal, non-harmful sort.

Skywarp came in handy. He was as devious as Sideswipe and he could teleport.

It would be the prank to end all pranks. It would make Sideswipe bow to Bluestreak, worshiping his genius. And then vow to never cross Bluestreak again for fear of his revenge.

It would become an Autobot legend.

"It'll also be fun!" Skywarp cackled, jostling him with an elbow.

"Whatever." Bluestreak didn't so much care for fun as he cared for wiping that grin of his friend's face. "Hand me that welder."

Sideswipe was never going to see this coming.

* * *

><p>an: Sideswipe is always the one to blame. ;)


	95. Mine, Optimus and Soundwave

**Title: Mine**

**Characters: OptimusxSoundwave**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: rope bondage, dom/sub **

**Description: On his knees, bound with rope, Soundwave should have been the picture of submission. **

* * *

><p>The ropes had been a great idea. Optimus vowed to thank Ratchet later, perhaps with a bottle of the medic's favorite vintage high grade.<p>

He sat back, admiring his work, copied from one of the many templates Ratchet had also gifted to him along with the coils of thick and durable rope. The tan hemp was a beautiful contrast to the dark, polished blue of Soundwave's armor.

It crisscrossed over the telepath's frame, narrow and elongated diamonds cutting a swathe over dark plating. Thick knots aligned with transformation seams, pressing in and preventing them from drawing together, forcing the plating to rattle in place, trapped between drawing tight and comfortably loose.

Soundwave's cannon was gone, set aside, leaving room for his arms to be bound above his head, also webbed with rope. Even his fingers were wound, though with thinner strands, keeping them pinned in place. There would be no escape for the Decepticon spy. And no help from his cassettes either.

They were elsewhere, beyond communications. And even if they had been present, the knotted length of rope wrapped over his dock would have prevented their deployment.

On his knees, bound with rope, Soundwave should have been the picture of submission. But there was a slow burn in his visor, the fierce barrier of his face mask, that gave him a defiant cast. His field was withdrawn, albeit trembling, and gave away nothing of his underlying emotion.

He didn't react as Optimus circled him. Nor when Optimus traced the ropes and brushed the heated armor beneath. Soundwave was running hot, his engine humming, but there was no other indication of potential arousal.

Optimus could leave Soundwave here all night if he wanted. Kneeling and bound, waiting for Optimus' attention, his pleasure. And Soundwave would not beg.

Optimus circled back around to Soundwave's front, his shadow falling over the carrier mech. He traced one finger down the seam in Soundwave's facemask. The visor burned a little brighter. Expectant? Perhaps.

But Optimus was not ready to make any demand yet. He wanted to enjoy for a little while longer.

One knot lodged beneath Soundwave's arm, forcing open a delicate seam. Optimus hooked a finger where there was a little slack in the rope and gave it a tug. The rope creaked. Soundwave leaned toward him by a fraction. There was a sharp ventilation.

Optimus smirked behind his mask.

He released the rope, letting the knot slide snugly back into place. It's current position left it pressed directly against a sensor node. It could not have been comfortable.

Yet Soundwave did not make a noise. It was that stoicism which made him so appealing to Optimus.

"I hope that you refueled before you came to me," Optimus said as his hands mapped the contours of Soundwave's frame without actually touching the increasingly heated metal. "I intend to enjoy you all night."

The visor deepened in hue and behind it, Optimus knew all focus was given to him.

"Unless, of course, you have any objections?"

Not a murmur. Not a whimper. But the quiet click of a cooling fan whirring to life was all the answer Optimus needed.

He cradled Soundwave's helm with one hand, stroking Soundwave's facemask with his thumb. "I thought as much," Optimus murmured. "Thank you."

And Soundwave, ever so fractionally, tilted his helm into Optimus' hand.

* * *

><p>an: Mmm. Love me some cross-factional romance.


	96. Buff This, Knock Out and Smokescreen

**Title: Buff This**

**Universe: Transformers Prime, post-Predacons Rising**

**Characters: Knock OutxSmokescreen**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: **

**Description: Knock Out always takes care of Smokescreen first. **

* * *

><p>This was Smokescreen's favorite part.<p>

Oh, the rest of it was slagging awesome. Mind-blowing and delicious and _hot_.

But this?

This turned the fiery inferno of lust and need into a warm bloom of comfort in the core of his internals. This made his engine purr, his fingers tingle, and his spark sing. It made him want to tackle Knock Out to the berth and return the favor.

Knock Out had the most beautiful and talented hands.

Smokescreen said as much even as he stretched across the berth, as relaxed as though he were neck-deep in an oil bath.

Knock Out chuckled, just audible over the soft whine of the buffer.

"Yes, I know," he said, never one to be modest. "But I appreciate the compliment all the same."

Knock Out's paint was scratched and marked blue and white. Every scrape was a reminder of their recent activities and a boost to the heat still simmering in Smokescreen's lines.

But Knock Out still always buffed Smokescreen first. Knock Out refused to call end until Smokescreen shone like a newforge and his plating was perfection.

"It will always feel good," he'd promised. "And I'll never hurt you beyond what I can fix."

Smokescreen had accepted that vow and offered his trust in return. A century later and Knock Out had yet to betray him.

It was all the reassurance Smokescreen needed.

He let his doors wriggle, calling attention to them. Knock Out had said to be still but part of Smokescreen's charm was his insubordination.

"Oh. Someone's still in a playful mood."

Smokescreen tracked Knock Out's movements with his sensors and flexed another door panel. "I do seem to have some extra charge here."

The buffer cut off with a noisy ker-klunk.

One long finger tickled the bottom of Smokescreen's foot. "Well, we can't have that, can we? Sure you're up for another round?"

Smokescreen revved his engine and popped his panel, baring his connector. A thin snap of charge lit the air with invitation.

"I'm sure," he purred.

The buffing afterward was his favorite part, Smokescreen reflected.

But this?

Hands and mouth and teeth and tongue and-

Hnnn.

Yeah. This was good, too.

* * *

><p>an: Part of a BDSM series I did for Valentine's Day. I'm only going to be posting the non-explicit ones though. You can find the other ones through any of the links in my profile.


	97. Inspection, G1, TracksxSunny

**Title: Inspection**

**Universe: G1**

**Characters: Tracks/Sunstreaker**

**Rating: T**

**Warning: dom/sub relationship **

**Description: Patience had been his first lesson.**

* * *

><p>Patience was part of the training.<p>

Sunstreaker knew that Tracks came off-shift at sunset. He knew that Tracks stopped by the common room for a chat, sometimes lingering to watch a movie or play a game of cards. Especially if he didn't have an early shift or Mirage was around for a chat.

Sunstreaker knew all this, that his chronometer read ten minutes past sunset. But he waited in Tracks' quarters anyway. He waited for Tracks to return, helm bowed and hands crossed at the wrists behind his back. They weren't bound in any way, except for the verbal restrictions placed on his movement.

He had polished himself to an expert shine, one he knew would be thoroughly inspected. And if there was so much as a tiny flaw, he would be punished. Perfection, however, granted him rewards.

Sometimes, one could be as good as the other.

Sunstreaker shivered, his spark yearning. He kept half his attention on his chronometer and did not move. He was not allowed to do so and it didn't matter that Tracks wasn't currently watching.

Sunstreaker had his orders and he would obey.

He waited.

Precisely thirty minutes later, he heard the door unlock and Tracks enter. Sunstreaker did not raise his helm. He waited to be acknowledged.

He sensed Tracks moving around him, felt the weight of his inspection. Sunstreaker's fans clicked on, a loud noise in the silence, one that escaped his control.

Tracks made a contemplative hum but whether it was disappointment or approval, Sunstreaker could not say.

A finger slid across his right shoulder tire. "Your finish is impeccable today," Tracks commented. "Yet, your self-control is lacking."

Praise and rebuke all at once. Sunstreaker would have sagged except that it would have ruined his posture and Tracks did not approve.

"Hmm. Perhaps I can overlook the transgression for today."

Tracks circled to his front and one finger nudged Sunstreaker's helm upward so that their optics could meet. There was a curve to the corner of Tracks' mouth – approval – and his field nudged against Sunstreaker's in silent demand to be allowed access. Sunstreaker obliged, a minute shiver attacking his frame as the force of Tracks' appreciation sizzled over him.

That same finger traced a line down Sunstreaker's chin and intake until it hooked into the thin tungsten band around Sunstreaker's throat. The bare tug, the _claim_, sent ripples of desire through Sunstreaker's field. He couldn't have held himself back if he tried.

"When's your next shift?" Tracks asked.

"Sunrise."

Tracks' grin became a smirk, his field pushing harder against Sunstreaker's, as though trying to seep into the nooks and crannies of his frame.

"That's unfortunate," Tracks purred and he stepped closer, their frames inches apart, his finger still curled around Sunstreaker's collar. "Because it seems you are going to be late for it."

Sunstreaker's engine revved. Tracks must have spent his entire shift devising the plans for their rendezvous.

"I'll be sent to the brig," Sunstreaker said. Not an argument, merely a statement of fact.

Tracks' finger nudged against his intake, a teasing tickle. "I'm aware of that," he said, and his other hand traced Sunstreaker's grill. "Because I have guard shift tomorrow."

_Oh_.

So it was to be one of _those_ sessions then.

Sunstreaker's optics burned bright.

Tracks was going to make the brig-time worth it.

* * *

><p>an: Another piece from my Valentine's BDSM series.


	98. Of Disobedience, TFP, ArceexWheeljack

**Title: Of Disobedience**

**Universe: Transformers Prime**

**Characters: ArceexWheeljack, Ratchet, (implied ArceexBulkheadxWheeljack)**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: public discipline, mostly sfw, dom/sub relationship, dirty thoughts**

**Description: Jack will never, ever know that Arcee had gotten the idea from him.**

* * *

><p>Arcee heard Ratchet before she saw the medic approach, but she made no efforts to warn Ratchet about what he was about to see. After all, part of the fun was in seeing that look on Ratchet's face.<p>

Kind of like the one she could see from a peripheral sensor right now.

"Why is Wheeljack in his altmode in the corner?" Ratchet's field buzzed with bewilderment.

Arcee looked up from her datapad. The medic looked honestly disgruntled as well, perhaps because Wheeljack's current position made it difficult for him to get to one of his toolboxes. She'd put him there on purpose. It was the most highly visible corner.

Arcee smirked. "Because I put him there," she answered, and returned her gaze to her datapad. Not that she'd been paying it a whit of attention.

Most of her focus was on the insubordinate Wrecker, crackling with unresolved overcharge, and due to suffer it until Arcee felt he deserved his release.

The idea of the corner she'd gotten from Jack, not that she'd ever tell her human partner what she used the information for. Humans had some very, very interesting discipline techniques. And since pain wasn't much of a deterrent to Wheeljack (just last week she'd whipped him to overload, it had been a record), Arcee had sought out other methods.

Ratchet planted his hands on his hips, his optics narrowing at her. "Though I am not sure whether I want to know the answer, pray tell _why_ you put him there?"

Taillights flashed at her. Arcee tilted her helm in Wheeljack's direction, arching an orbital ridge. It wasn't embarrassment that Wheeljack sent her, but amusement. There was very little that shamed Wheeljack.

In fact, Arcee would be surprised if _anything_ shamed the unrepentant slagger. He was a voyeur and an exhibitionist to boot.

"Because he was disobedient." Arcee reclined in her makeshift chair, resolving to be more comfortable.

It had only been an hour. He wasn't suffering in the slightest.

"Disobedient," Ratchet repeated flatly.

He stared at her and then he looked at Wheeljack, and then he looked back at her. He slowly, ever so slowly, connected the dots. He did, after all, share a wall with Bulkhead and Wheeljack's claimed room.

And Arcee knew when he understood because Ratchet's field flared with a mixture of outrage and exasperation. He threw his hands into the air, whirled on a heel, and stalked away.

She could have sworn he muttered something about "not needing that" before he disappeared down the hall. Poor Ratchet. Maybe Optimus would console him.

Arcee did not laugh, on the outside at least.

Brake lights flashed at her this time. And then Wheeljack's right blinker flicked on and off, something like a wink. Fragging cheeky Wreckers.

Maybe the corner wasn't enough for him. Maybe what he really needed was a spanking. For her to bend him over, borrow Bulkhead's paddle, and strip the paint off his aft. Or make Bulkhead do it. He could hit harder. And in the meantime, she could do something about Wheeljack's smart-aft mouth.

Hmm. Now there was an idea.

Arcee's own desire returned with a vengeance. Though careful control kept her from betraying it to Wheeljack.

"Two more hours," she said aloud, pretending full interest in her datapad. Or maybe she'd double it just to prove a point.

Wheeljack's engine revved before he silenced himself. Smart mech.

Little did he know, Bulkhead would be back in two hours. And he would be just as disappointed to hear how badly Wheeljack had misbehaved.

Well, for a certain definition of disappointed anyway.

Arcee smirked.

Poor Ratchet wasn't going to get any recharge tonight at all.

* * *

><p>an: Yet another from my Valentines BDSM series. I particularly like the idea of a Dom!Arcee so I might try and poke at this some more. ;)


	99. Lazy Days, IDW, Swindle and Blurr

**Title: Lazy Days**

**Universe: IDW Robots in Disguise, post-Dark Cybertron**

**Characters: Swindle, Blurr**

**Warnings: non-sexual petplay**

**Rating: T**

**Description: Blurr was as indecently sprawled over Swindle's lap as any mech could be. **

* * *

><p>There were a lot of things that Swindle did for credits (and sometimes influence). Some of the things he enjoyed. Some were tolerable. Some were endured. But so long as it brought in the creds, he could generally grin and bear it. Everything had a price after all.<p>

And then there were the things he would have never thought about if it hadn't been for the credits. Things that made him want to give it a try on his own.

He pitched the idea to the only mech he thought would give it the due attention the proposal deserved.

Blurr had been hesitant at first but warmed up to the idea over several sessions and now actively sought Swindle out for some playtime.

It was a ship of relaxation in a sea of backstabbing, cutthroat, sly and manipulative practices. Not that Swindle despised said practices. No, he luxuriated in them. There was nothing quite like going into a bargaining session and emerging victorious.

But this was good, too. This was for _fun_. And he didn't have to pay a cred for it.

Blurr draped over his lap, racing engine a light purr that sent a calming rhythm through Swindle's spark. Swindle's hand rested on the racer's back, stroking him from the tip of his helm, down the length of his dorsal plating and back again. Over and over.

The rhythmic motion of his hand, the glide of metal over metal, was as soothing to Swindle as it was to Blurr. And the racer must have been in a light recharge because his vents were wheezing. It was actually pretty cute.

Swindle had a datapad in one hand and while he could have spent the time doing some calculations or plotting his next economic conquest, instead he was reading a datatrack. A terribly written detective novel but in this current age of rebuilding, one couldn't be picky.

Blurr stirred, fidgeting. One arm dangled over the side of the couch and idly started pawing at Swindle's leg, fingers scraping against his plating. He'd just gotten polished, too.

Swindle made a warning noise in his chassis. "Stop that."

One blue optic unshuttered at him, watching him. Testing him.

The fingers kneaded at his armor again, threatening to leave scratches.

Swindle narrowed his optics and flicked a finger over Blurr's audial. "I said _stop_," he repeated, more firmly this time.

Blurr huffed a great (wheezing, he should really have that looked at) ventilation and flopped onto his side, limbs stretching in all directions before he settled again, back on his belly. He was as indecently sprawled over Swindle's lap as any mech could be.

More amused than he let on, Swindle let his hand rest on Blurr's back. Plating twitched beneath his palm but the distinct vibrations of purring had come back into play. Swindle renewed the stroking and smiled when Blurr's helm tilted into his hand.

It was to be a lazy day then. Well, nothing wrong with that.

So Blurr dozed and Swindle read and the vidscreen mumbled the daily news in the background and it was good. Eventually they'd have to get up. Swindle would need to stretch and Blurr's need to be in motion would arise, but for now, yes. This was good.

* * *

><p>an: Another installment of my Valentines BDSM series and a fill for an anonymous prompt on my tumblr.


	100. Trust, IDW, DRatchet

**Title: Trust**

**Universe: IDW, MTMTE, before Overlord Arc**

**Characters: DriftxRatchet**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: discussions of BDSM**

**Description: Ratchet makes an offer and wonders why he hadn't done it sooner.**

* * *

><p>Trust, Ratchet realized, was one of the greatest and most difficult gifts.<p>

He watched Drift fidget as he looked around Ratchet's cluttered habsuite, radiating unease. He stared at the collection of trinkets that had survived the war, stowed safely in a subspace pocket. His fingers twitched as though he wanted to touch them, but feared breaking them. He was so desperate to please that the fear of screwing up had overtaken all else.

Drift was beyond the consolation of words. Actions he understood better. Words were often little consolation in the gutters. Ratchet knew this all too well.

There was so much more he should have done back then. But it was pointless to linger on the past, not when the future stretched out before them.

Ratchet strode across the floor and reached for Drift's hand. It was given to him without question.

"Here," Ratchet said as he turned Drift's hand upward.

Ratchet placed a pair of cuffs on the bare palm. They were a standard construction, not stasis, but physical restraint. They could be easily broken if need be. They were perfect for beginners and were more for Drift's sake than Ratchet's own.

Ratchet could handle stasis cuffs. He'd been bound with a lot worse. But right now, he wanted Drift to be comfortable with this. To understand what gift Ratchet was giving him.

Drift blinked. "Um."

"Use them on me," Ratchet said, his systems already cycling hotter in anticipation. It had been vorns since he'd last indulged in such play. Not since...

Well, the less thought of that, of _him_, the better.

Drift's weight shifted. "Ratchet, I don't think-"

"-you can." Ratchet closed Drift's fingers around the cuffs and kept his hand over Drift's. "Because there are rules. You won't hurt me. At least, no more than I ask you to."

Drift's field was a confusing tangle of intrigue and dread. He stared at their hands and the cuffs as though he held a dangerous weapon.

"I don't know if I can." His plating ruffled, betraying his unease. It had nothing to do with shyness, Ratchet knew.

It was a matter of self-control.

"You don't have to if you don't want to. I can get along fine without it." Ratchet lent his field, offering support and affection. "You don't have to do it for my sake either. But if you're interested, I'm offering."

Drift's optics snapped to him in surprise, as though having the choice was foreign to him. His mouth opened and closed. His engine purred.

"I..." He licked his lips, working his intake. "What do I do?"

Ratchet pressed closer, the edges of their armor coming into contact. "I'll teach you."

"Because there are rules." Drift's vocalizer crackled with static.

"Yes." Ratchet pulled his hand back, leaving Drift in possession of the cuffs. "For example, I enjoy minor levels of pain but nothing that would leave permanent damage or require extensive repair. I like being bound, but I don't like for my senses to be restricted. I want to be able to see and hear what you are doing." Vastly simplified but it would be enough for Drift to get a basic understanding.

Drift nodded slowly. "I don't think I should hurt you. Even if you wanted me to." Something rippled in his field, too fast for Ratchet to read, but he had a good guess of what it had been.

"Then I won't ask for it," Ratchet said and was doubly glad to see the relief in Drift's field. "That's how it works. A 'no' is always a 'no'. A 'yes' can become a 'no' and negotiations can be made before and after but never during."

Now that Ratchet had broached the topic, he wondered why he hadn't mentioned it sooner. There was something about the conversation, the discussion, that would put Drift more at ease than murmured reassurances. Which was fine with Ratchet. As far as he was concerned, clearly given consent was never a bad thing.

And for Drift, it was probably better than relying on implications.

"Then I want to try." Drift tightened his fingers around the cuffs and met Ratchet's gaze. "I want you to teach me."

Ratchet grinned. He should have brought this up a lot sooner.

"Then come and sit. I'll get the energon and we can discuss the details. All right?"

Drift smiled as well, his field flickering with relief around the edges. "Sounds good."

His so-called aura was probably just as bright, Ratchet thought to himself.

* * *

><p>an: It's past time I wrote some of my IDW OTP. Guess that means more is coming in the future. :)


	101. Break Time, TFP, JazzxRatch

**Title: Break Time**

**Characters: JazzxRatchet**

**Universe:Transformers:Prime, pre-series**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: implied sticky **

**Description: Jazz is all that Ratchet needs. **

* * *

><p><p>

Ratchet grumbled as he poked at the crushed device with a microwelder. Was there even any point in fixing this? Could he fix this?

He heard the door to his tiny medbay open. "I'm busy," Ratchet snapped, not bothering to check who it was. It could be Optimus and he wouldn't give a frag. "Go away."

"Oh, dear. Dare I ask?"

Ratchet put the device down, giving it a poke. It half-rolled, a few loose components flaking off with chiming noises. A screw leapt across the table, onto the floor, and rolled under a nearby cabinet.

"I am surrounded by morons," Ratchet said, recognizing the voice as the one mech he didn't want to toss out on his aft. "Clumsy, useless, morons."

Jazz chuckled as he swung into view and hopped up onto the counter next to the crushed device, four large furrows evidence of the massive hand that had been the cause of the damage.

"Who was it this time?"

"Bulkhead," Ratchet growled. "It's always Bulkhead. He should have stayed with the Wreckers. Where he belongs. It's what he's good at."

"Wrecking stuff?" Jazz asked with a cheeky grin.

Ratchet rolled his optics and set down his welder. No. There was no point in saving this. Into the scrap pile it would go.

"You think you're so clever," he grumbled, moving to brush past the data mech turned saboteur.

"I'm also cute." Jazz snagged him as he passed, legs curling around Ratchet's hips and dragging him close. "Don't you agree, Doc?"

Ratchet sighed through his vents and turned into Jazz's embrace, recognizing the soft pulse of affection for what it was. "What do you want, Jazz?"

Hands draped over his shoulders, Jazz tipped their helms together. "Is a bit of attention from my favorite medic a bit too much to ask?"

"Favorite? Who else are you letting poke at your systems, specialized as they are?"

"Ooo. Is that jealousy, I hear?" Jazz's legs tightened, drawing him close enough that he could feel the heat at the apex of Jazz's thighs.

So. He'd come in here hot and revved to go. Ratchet shouldn't be so surprised. It was often the case with Jazz. He'd pop in and pop out and sometimes, it would be orns before Ratchet heard from him again. Jazz did not ascribe to anything like a schedule.

Ratchet rested his hands on Jazz's hips, giving them a thoughtful squeeze. "It's pointless to be jealous when it comes to you."

"Aw, but Ratch, you know you're the only one for me." Jazz purred, tipping Ratchet's helm up with a nudge, only to steal a kiss.

One Ratchet gave with equal fervor. He had not yet learned how to say no to Jazz and frankly, he didn't want to. The snarky saboteur was a much needed gift in the middle of all this war nonsense.

Jazz wriggled against him, interface panel scraping enticingly against Ratchet's own, and what was left of his anger melted away. Who cared about the device? He had an armful of eager mech right now and no patients on the docket.

"All right," Ratchet said, breaking off the kiss. "You've made your point. My time is yours until some idiot comes in here carrying his own leg."

Jazz laughed, one hand tickling at the edge of Ratchet's helm, teasing the sensitive cables beneath. "I have the feeling someone's already done that."

"Long story."

A very, very long story that Ratchet didn't care to repeat because the story wasn't important. Jazz was. He wasn't going to waste this opportunity.

"You'll have to tell me later." Jazz's right pede scraped down the back of Ratchet's left leg, a teasing burr of metal on metal that spiked heat through Ratchet's lines. "Maybe during round three."

"Optimistic, aren't you?"

"I've been known to be inspirational." Jazz rocked his hips again, his visor deepening to a needy blue. "Course there are better ways to shut me up, if you know what I mean."

Ratchet rolled his optics but he knew how to take a hint. He kissed Jazz again, delighting in the little moan the kiss produced. Jazz's squirming increased in urgency.

Ratchet, after all, deserved a break.


	102. You and I, G1, RatchxWheeljack

**Title: You and I**

**Characters: RatchetxWheeljack**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: fluff, cuteness, mentions of sex toys **

**Description: Winding down after a difficult day. They have a routine. **

* * *

><p><p>

They always start in the washracks because Wheeljack can be relied on to have all manner of chemicals spattered on his frame and Ratchet is just as bad. Oh, they are both careful as it is, but accidents happen and it never hurts to indulge in a good rinse.

And then it's back to their shared quarters for a mutual polishing and repainting session. Which is always an adventure because Ratchet is ticklish and Wheeljack can't sit still and they often have to start over as a result. And sometimes the polishing leads to other activities and they never make it to the rest of the routine.

If fatigue, however, proves stronger than temptation, they curl up together on the berth, sharing a box of energon goodies as they watch an Earth movie. The rule is that they can't feed themselves, only each other, and this, too, sometimes leads to more energizing activities.

They take turns picking the movie because Wheeljack likes cheesy romances, especially Disney ones so he can sing along. Ratchet prefers Westerns and John Wayne, but they both agree that Science Fiction is worth mocking and a good laugh until it sends them both into recharge.

After dinner and a movie, if there is still energy to spare, comes game time, usually on a weekly basis. It's a fun challenge and the goal is to see who can come up with the kinkiest, most ridiculous and yet effective interfacing toy.

Wheeljack, much to Ratchet's consternation, wins four times out of five. Their neighbors aren't happy about it either. Ratchet can be loud given enough incentive and Wheeljack can be quite inspiring.

Of course, Ratchet discreetly gifts said neighbors with some previous week's winners and the complaining usually stops. Ratchet suspects it's a force of habit now and the loudest among them – Prowl – is just angling for free toys.

He can be sneaky like that.

Ratchet isn't very upset with Wheeljacks' repeated victories. Every win is an opportunity to make use of said toy and Ratchet is an enthusiastic test subject. If they are lucky and share the next off-shift, Wheeljack drags out their box of fun from beneath the berth.

Ratchet, in those times, sends out a mass 'do not disturb' comm and woe be unto the Autobot who doesn't heed that warning.

The Decepticons had certainly learned their lesson. Ratchet's nickname, after all, had not been given to him by fellow Autobots.

But when it's all said and done, their night always ends the same: snuggled together on the berth. Wheeljack likes to lie on top of Ratchet, his helm pillowed on Ratchet's windshield as their legs tangle together. Wheeljack likes to listen to the steady pulse of Ratchet's spark beat. Ratchet likes to lightly stroke Wheeljack's winglets, lulling his partner into recharge.

And, as always, the best part of every night is when they get to wake up together the next morning.


	103. Ticking Bomb, G1, Skyfire and Megatron

**Title: Ticking Bomb**

**Characters: Skyfire, Megatron**

**Universe: G1**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: character death, dark fic **

**Description: There was no escape, nowhere Skyfire could go away from this madness. And so he made a choice. **

* * *

><p><p>

How long had they been fighting?

Centuries by his mark. Millennia truthfully, though he wasn't sure if he should count the four million year sleep.

Either way, it was far too long. Skyfire was done with it. Tired of it. He'd sat back and he'd listened to them bicker. He'd watched Optimus, trapped in his morality. He'd observed Megatron, trapped in his insanity.

He'd heard Prowl and Jazz as they reacted, instead of being proactive. As they listened to their leader without realizing the long-term implications. He cringed as Starscream seemed only capable of prolonging things, of driving Megatron further into madness.

It wasn't ever going to end.

There was no escape, nowhere Skyfire could go away from this madness. Worse that he found himself caught up in it, that there was truly no option but us or them. That he'd chosen the Autobots as the lesser of two evils, but both factions were equally to blame.

He couldn't return to Cybertron. He couldn't stay here on Earth like this.

He couldn't do any of it anymore.

Skyfire made a choice. And he'd reached the point where he no longer cared about the consequences.

Opportunity came two days later, almost like clockwork. The Decepticons were starved for energy. They attacked the nearest, best purveyor of said energy. The humans squawked for help. The Autobots responded.

Skyfire was dispatched to carry the first wave of defense forces.

He dropped his cargo and circled the battlefield. Prowl pinged him to return, to pick up the next wave, even as the Aerialbots came screaming in, combining mid-drop to face Menasor as Superion.

Skyfire ignored the pings. And then he shut down the line. He was only interested in one thing.

He scanned the battlefield. Megatron, of course, was leading the charge. Starscream was harrying the ground forces, the rest of his wing next to him. Soundwave hovered at Megatron's side, ever obedient.

Optimus was en route. Megatron, no doubt, waited for him. He let his subordinates do the hard work while he issued challenge after challenge.

"Face me, Prime!" he bellowed. "Before I kill more of your precious humans."

Skyfire was done.

He considered, he calculated, and he dove.

He transformed mid-air and swept Megatron from the ground before anyone could react. He tossed the warlord to the ground a fair distance away from the battle, aware that he was on a timer.

He landed over Megatron, one pede pinning him in place. Skyfire was larger, much larger, and there was a crunch as his other pede slammed Megatron's cannon-laden arm to the rocky dirt.

Megatron, of all things, laughed. "You?" he asked, optics burning with humor. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Ending the war." Skyfire drew his own weapon – space exploration was dangerous. He'd always been armed. He just never thought he'd be pointing it at his own species.

Megatron's vents hiccuped from his laughter. "You don't have what it takes to pull the trigger," he taunted, half-daring Skyfire to do so. "You're an Autobot."

"That's what everyone keeps forgetting," Skyfire said as he pointed it at Megatron, and ruthlessly shoved down any and all coding that screamed at him. He had to do this. "I'm not really either of you."

Hesitation was the Autobots' downfall.

Pride was the weakness of the Decepticons.

Skyfire had neither.

He pulled the trigger. Twice. One to the spark, one to the helm. A Cybertronian could sometimes survive either. Megatron could not survive both.

Smoke rose up from Megatron's chassis. Skyfire waited for the crushing guilt and self-recrimination. He waited to feel sick, for his tanks to lurch, and for him to stare in horror at what he'd done.

It never came. This was necessary.

Skyfire stepped back and turned, surveying the battlefield. No one noticed yet. But they would soon enough.

Now, he only had to find Optimus Prime.

-End-


	104. Of Hidden Talents, G1, RatchJack

**Title: Of Hidden Talents**

**Universe: G1**

**Characters: RatchetxWheeljack**

**Rating: K+**

**Warning: Fluff, Cuteness, sorta humor**

**Description: Ratchet hears a noise and goes to investigate. **

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><p>What in Unicron's rusted undergarments was that noise?<p>

Ratchet frowned, set aside his datapad, and rose from the berth. It sounded like someone was mating a trash compactor with a salvage grinder. It was offensive to the audials.

It was coming from elsewhere in the apartment.

Ratchet's frown deepened. He stalked out of the berthroom, determined to hunt down the poor machine and kill it. He had surgery tomorrow, frag it.

The caterwauling got louder. It was coming from his partner's workshop.

Was Wheeljack under attack?

It wouldn't be the first time thieves had broken in, searching for valuables amid the laboratory equipment.

Ratchet's optics cycled down. He groped for a weapon and snatched that hideous sculpture Ironhide gave them last decaorn. It was a gag gift, right? And it was steel, heavy, and sharp. It would do.

Ratchet braced himself and slammed the door panel, leaping into Wheeljack's lab with a loud yell. He brandished his sculpture.

"Drop it!" Ratchet growled.

The noise vanished with a tiny squeak. Wheeljack stared back at him, indicators a pale pink. His optics were wide. His hands froze mid-motion.

"Uh. Drop what?"

Ratchet peered around suspiciously. "No thieves?"

"Um... no." Wheeljack eyed the sculpture. "Didn't Ironhide give us that?"

"I needed a weapon."

"For the thieves?"

Ratchet slumped at his partner's incredulous tone and lowered his makeshift weapon. Be concerned for your partner's welfare and see what it got you? Harrumph.

"I heard a noise," Ratchet said and set the sculpture down on the nearest spot of clean table. He had to take several steps to get there. Wheeljack wasn't a big believer in organization.

Mess, he claimed, was his biggest inspiration.

"Noise?"

"You didn't hear it? A sort of... dying noise?"

Wheeljack's indicators darkened in hue. His hands fiddled harder with whatever he was working on. "Oh... that." His winglets fluttered. "Yeah, the Reflexians are an acquired taste."

Ratchet blinked. "What?"

"Music," Wheeljack clarified. "I was, um, singing." He shuffled his pedes. "The song was from Reflexa."

"Well, that's... different." Ratchet inched closer to his partner, reading the embarrassment in Wheeljack's field.

It was adorable.

"Sorry, I woke you," Wheeljack said and he stared so hard at the item in his hands Ratchet thought it might spontaneously combust. His winglets fluttered again.

"Wasn't recharging yet." There was a stack of datatracks nearby. Ratchet picked up the top one, reading the title. He recognized the artist, one made popular by their romantic ballads.

In fact... Ratchet skimmed the other titles. All of these here were romantic ballads, a good portion from Cybertron, but others from other planets. Some of the languages he recognized, others he didn't. But it was a fair bet that they were ballads, too.

Wheeljack liked romantic ballads. More than that, he liked singing along with them. That was... well, it was adorable, that's what it was.

Ratchet cocked his helm and looked at his partner, who was pretending full interest in his project and trying to hide the embarrassed flutter in his field.

"You're cute," Ratchet said, and he leaned over, pressing a kiss to Wheeljack's helm, just above his audial. He made it a point to direct a puff of heated air down into Wheeljack's collar fairing. "And if you're inclined to put that down, you can join me in the berth. I'll show you just how much."

Wheeljack shivered. His project clattered to the top of the desk. He turned his helm and nuzzled against Ratchet's.

"Thank you for not laughing," he said, indicators flashing a gentle pale ocher.

Ratchet allowed affection to seep into his field. "Never," he said, and took Wheeljack's hand, squeezing it. "But for the sake of my poor audials, do warn me the next time you get the urge."

Wheeljack laughed. "I'll try."

"Or at least save it for a time when I'm not about to recharge," Ratchet added.

"Deal."


End file.
